Kumano Kōdō III: Kii-ji

09/04/09

We used Wakayama as base camp for a few days. The Kōdō bisected a series of train lines within short reach of the city, and it made good sense to commute out and walk light. The bath and bed in our hotel room weren't very big, but breakfast and the internet were free. Before setting out each morning, I'd potter down to the lobby in my hotel slippers, the kind that mental patients wear.

We took the train to Hoshiya, where we'd left off. The water in the rice paddies was alive with small snails and tiny fish, a unique and special biosystem. A temple near here looked somewhat Okinawan, all tiled roofs and palm trees. After a fire here, the temple's statue of Kannon had been moved to a new location nearby. Soon afterward, horses in the region began to die suddenly, unexpectedly, until the statue was returned to the rebuilt temple.

Today's scenery was much like yesterday's -- of villages and rice fields and the canals that bisected them with so much rushing water. Many homes were surrounded by stone shale walls, architectural testament to a tropical clime. Along the way, we passed a house of impressive size, which had once been the family estate of the local tax collector. Climbing Yada pass, we found a small cave cut into the hillside, it's own shale walls sheltering a statue of En-no-Gyoja. Over this pass, we soon came to another. Further down, a wasp was backing across the path, dragging the carcass of a spider three times its size. At the bottom of the hill were a cluster of homes, standing amidst grave stones of incredible age, hinting at how long people have inhabited this valley. The trees that shaded them also offered mikan nearly ripe, a nice thirst-quenching treat.

Beyond a street with some very old posters, we stopped for lunch on the broken stone steps of a nearby temple, beneath a beautifully aged gate. A few bites in, we noticed that we were sitting amidst a nest of caterpillars, each the size of my thumb. It took some time to brush them from our bags and clothes.

It was a hot day, the trail mostly unshaded as it passed between houses old and new. We found some respite beside a large Jizo and had some tea. Close by was Spider Lake, whose grubby water was simultaneously disgusting and inviting. The turtles seemed to have found peace with this, their forms breaking the surface again and again. One mother was teaching one of her babies to swim. She'd twist and arc her body in order to push it under the surface. When it attempted to climb upon her shell, she'd dive deeply, surfacing nearby a minute later. The baby would immediately sense where she was, and swim at great speed to her, and the whole process would begin again.

Toward the end of the day, we came to a large temple complex atop a flight of steep stone stairs. The main hall was flanked by hundreds of stone Jizo statues. Inside were dozens of paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. I wandered further up the hill in order to see the sea, but was frustrated by the large Sumitomo factory that rose up at the water's edge. Walking down now, past a few smaller buildings well on their way to ruin.

The final stretch to the station was along a street lined with old houses, each bearing a red plate written with "K.K." A loudspeaker came on to tell us that the local schoolkids were on their way home, and that we should all cooperate in keeping them safe. Japan these days has a hyper-inflated sense of danger. Just yesterday, those 8-years olds we'd met had shown us their cellphones, to be used in the event of a predatory attack. How depressing that children are being taught to be afraid of a big bad hostile world. Childhood ends early here. (I'm tempted to say that perhaps it never ends at all, based on much of the immature behavior I see around me.)

Again in Wakayama, we walked 20 unhappy minutes on aching feet to get Miki's bag situation sorted out. Then, a long expensive bus ride back to city center, followed by a lousy meal in a local eatery, with annoying radio BGM that consisted of nearly 30 minutes of voices nearly shrieking in incredibly high registers. "AHHH SOOO DESU KAAAAA?!!!!!" I de-clenched my teeth at one point to hear an announcement about an upcoming 6-hour Kumano Kōdō walk, limited to 200 people. God help me...


On the turntable: "Beat the Retreat: Songs of Richard Thompson"

Kumano Kōdō II: Kii-ji

09/03/09

It made for an awkward start, rushing to finish with the house, then dashing to make the train. We handed our keys back to the landlady at five past 10, boarded the train 20 frenzied minutes later. Once aboard, I couldn't believe that we'd made it. A few days ago, even a day ago, I wouldn't have been able to imagine it, what with all that had needed to be done. And after awhile this feeling was replaced by fatigue, by weariness. Sleep pushed in from the corners, but I pushed back. Just not nearly hard enough. We sat on the platform at Tennoji, nearly missing our train resting further down the track, which we had hardly acknowledged until its lights came on like the opening of eyes. A conductor on the adjacent platform had looked over at us, but hadn't been able to extend the courtesy of mentioning that the train we were waiting for was just...over...there. After all that would have meant doing his job.

We detrained at Yamanakadani, fiddled with our packs a bit, then set up the road. We'd finished here on a cold snowy January day, me with aching achilles. Today I felt good despite the recent sleeplessness and stress, despite the greater weight on my back. On recent walks my right hip had complained, but today it felt solid. More surprisingly, my usually griping knee had little to say.

Miki, on the other hand... She began to have trouble within the first half hour. The pack she'd chosen -- the one borrowed from me -- wasn't sitting right. The way in which it peeled back off her shoulders was hurting her back; the way it rode her shoulders dug into some pressure points there. We stopped quite a few times to adjust things in order to ease her pain. This worked for awhile, but ultimately she'd have trouble again. I tried to feel compassion, but there was an element of schadenfreude at work here. During the stress of the move, we'd bickered a lot, me growing weary of her comments and her opinions. She'd really pushed her 'go light' philosophy on me, attempting to make me give up most of my possessions. Yet this current situation was proof that throughout the process, her mind had been so focused on this that she had neglected to properly prepare for the walk. This entire first day was now punctuated by her regrets and complaints. Not that there was much to distract her. The road was a busy one, made noisy by being wedged in between a train line and a highway. This continued for nearly two hours. Conversation was difficult, though Miki had little to say, hunched forward over, eyes on the ground.

Osaka is separated by Wakayama by a narrow stream, the site of the final battle of feudal Japan. Further on, a construction crew was widening the road, on a steep and quick curve. A questionable need. A few days before, the LDP, who supplies the barrels into which such pork is usually tossed, had been defeated most viciously at the polls. Their construction friendly ways may be on the way out. As I passed an army of construction flagmen of advanced age staring off into space, I began to hum, "Your Time is Gonna Come." In this too, I am witness to yet end of another phase of Japanese history. Descending the hill, I thought about how different the DJP victory -- admittedly historic -- had been compared to Obama's win last fall. Here I felt no jubilation, no sense of future promise. All seemed business as usual on the streets of Japan. I fear history will prove me right.

As the road descended, I immediately recognized the vast valley of the Kii-no-Kawa, whose path I had partially followed in the spring. We entered a village at the valley's edge, houses spaced by rice fields, their stalks heavy and bending toward the dry cracked earth which had spawned them. We stopped on the side of the road, to have snacks and tea, to the amusement of the occasional farmer bicycling by. Across the fields was a large temple, where Ono no Komachi had died 1100 years before while on her own Kumano pilgrimage.

Further into the village, a trio of schoolgirls looked shocked at the sight of me. We were a little uncertain about the road that we wanted, and after asking the girls, I overheard one of them ask her friend, "Was he Japanese?' Miki and I moved down the road to their elementary school and borrowed some shade out front for a rest. Turned out the girls had been tailing us, and the bravest one walked up to ask if I were Japanese. We talked with them for a while, let them try to pick up our packs. Miki learned a new Japanese word from them, a term basically meaning "stranger danger," which saddened us that they'd need to know this. This sadness quickly turned to surprise at finding that they'd never heard of Kyoto.

We moved on, through a sea of rice fields straight out of 'Lily Chou Chou.' I liked the way the trail zigzagged from village to village. A beautiful shrine made of earth and stone sat in a small clearing. As we rested nearby, a man came out to offer us watermelon. The locals knew exactly what we were up to, encouraging us with smiles and greetings. It gave us a feeling that we were doing something important.

As the day went on, Miki was having a harder and harder time. Not wanting to add to her trouble, I ignored my usual curiosities -- that beautiful old house with a tea room built over the canal; a shrine with an intriguing tree-lined drive. We finally came to the long bridge across the River Kii. Crossing took about 15 minutes, with multiple rest stops. When we got to the station on the far side, I didn't see any relief on Miki's face, which was by now a mask of suffering.

We'd decided earlier to go into Wakayama city to get her a new pack. Just off the train, we were chatted up by some friendly Mormons, but they didn't know any hotels. Miki wandered off in search of a tourist information stand. I spotted a pony-tailed taxi driver, who I was sure would know a cheap place to sleep. We checked in, then walked over to WaraWara which promised 'new' izakaya fare, like mochi tacos and tofu lasagna. Plus the all important over-sized beers. I slept very well...


On the turntable: Ken Nordine, "Colors"
On the nighttable: Brett Dakin, "Another Quiet American"

The Way of the Mountain

I'm reading 'The Fruitful Darkness," by Joan Halifax and in its pages, I come across this:

"Viewing a mountain from a distance or walking around its body, we can see its shape, know its profile, survey its surrounds. The closer you come to the mountain, the more it disappears. The mountain begins to lose its shape as you near it. Its body begins to spread out over the landscape, losing itself to itself. On climbing the mountain, the mountain continues to vanish. It vanishes in the detail in each step. Its crown is buried in space. Its body is buried in the breath."

I'm immediately taken back to Fuji-san. I walked to her foot though a forest fog, past rotting shrines traditionally only seen by male suitors. I climbed her flank of constantly shifting shale. But I never saw her.

I spent a night in her embrace, breathed in her scent of chemical toilet sanitizers mingling with burning plastic. I stood on her shoulder, arms raised to honor the rising sun. But I never saw her.

Trains and buses took me past her. But she wasn't there. My plane flew over her head. But she wasn't there.

On a clear sunny winter day, she finally showed herself to me. And she's ever within.


On the turntable: Eric Clapton, "Rush"
On the nighttable: Francois Bizot, "The Gate"

Sunday Papers: Mikey Lambe

"I like you. You're stupid like me."

--at the end of a long night of beer and ukelele music


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Bootleg Series 1-3"

Dueling Bentos

It's spring, and the blogs are multiplying 'round here like rabbits. (Even Miki's in on the act.) Cue the string music, Dueling Bentos has arrived. It will chronicle life in what's dubbed the 'City Different.' Things Japanese, or with a heavier Asian flavour, will continue to be served up here, hopefully twice a week or so. There will also be the occasional double post, where my two world collide in what I'm calling Culturophenia, being neither here nor there, but in some state of mind between.

So join me there, continue to join me here, but please join me. If you've followed me this far, then let's meet where paths diverge at May 1st...

On the turntable: The Latin Jazz Quintet, "Latin Soul"

On the Turntable

Back to sharing a living room with my LPs, I've found myself listening to a lot of vinyl again. There is nothing like the hiss as the needle finds the groove; the unselfconscious pop that irregularly marks time; the clunk of the returning tone arm amplified through the speakers. I've long forgotten how short the sides are. None of these packaged-by-the-hour tunes of compact discs. None of the 'bop 'til the batteries drop' of mp3s. Instead, every 20 minutes you have to get up, walk across the room, and flip the album over. I'm surprised at how much I've missed this manual labor.

On the turntable: "Lester Young" (Giants of Jazz series)
On the nighttable: Joan Halifax, " The Fruitful Darkness"

And Regrets? I've Had a Few...

These days, one of my favorite activities seems to cause me great pain. Every time I watch a Japanese film, I begin to badly long for Japan. No matter the film -- "Lady of Musashino," "Okuribito," or "Zen!" (exclamation point mine, due to all the drama)-- it causes me to doubt my decision to return back here. Now, I'm adult enough to realize that this is due to the fact that I have yet to establish any routine to ground me. Instead, I've passed my days in errands, tasks, and the simple act of waiting for life to begin. There is great peace for be found in meditating and gardening at Upaya, and on the yoga mat. But in 3 months, the only single fun thing I've done for myself was wandering the Tsankawi mesa. On that day, I was thrilled to be here. Most other days, I play the what if game.

Would another year in Kyoto have been so bad? Near the end, I was finally finding acceptance with the yoga world as it is marketed in Kansai. I could've gone back to simple teaching, forgoing the excess of workshops, and trying to ignore all the nonsense. I would've thrown myself more into translation. I would've spent less time in the hills and more time with friends in cafes or alone, strolling the city's narrow streets. I most definitely would've given greater priority to my training in Takeuchi and with the Omine Shugenja. These last two lost chances really sting when recalled, and serve as major sources of regret. Yet, that mantra of 'one more year, one more year' is self-perpetuating and can lead to an entrapment strongly bound by the laws of inertia.

Those who've followed me this far know of my great love for New Mexico, a love I expect will return. But for now it feels like revisiting an old flame who, though still a beauty, has lost some of her charm. And the mind naturally turns to the form of another, who, in times of better and worse, long warmed the bed.


On the turntable: '"Collector's History of Classic Jazz"
On the nighttable: W. Sometset Maugham, "The Gentleman in the Parlour"

Sunday Papers: Jiantung

"Studying the Way is like planting a tree -- if you cut it just when it branches out, it can be used for firewood; if you cut it when it's about to reach full growth, it can be used for rafters; if you cut it when it's somewhat stronger, it can be used for beams; if you cut it when it's old and huge, it can be used for pillars."


On the turntable: Bjork, "Post"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown Revisited

Last summer, I had planned to sort through the TSH posts and edit them into something of a guide to the hike. But time and life stuff got in the way. I was further urged on by a New Years email from Wes asking for more info. Finally, I got it together.

Most of the posts are the same, with some slight editing. I also tried to fill in the blanks here and there, since I didn't write up the North Kyoto parts that we previously hiked as the Kyoto Isshū Trail. Most importantly, I listed all the resources I used.

Overall, it still reads less like a guide than a cynical travel piece. But, as the only English information out there, I hope it is helpful.

Tokai Shizen Hoedown


On the turntable: "Backbeat" (OST)

Earth Day

Morning in short-sleeves,
Evening in the snow.

Even on her day,
Old Mother shows off some tricks.


On the turntable: "Sky Dancing"

Tsankawi

We sit on the edge of a cliff, watching the storm drift past. Once again I find myself atop a mesa on sacred native land, just out of reach of rain and lightning and thunder. Three of the four of us share Irish blood, so naturally our conversation leads us to that Emerald Isle, moving from there to Tibet, from the Bronx to Piedmont, CA. Across the ravine are the concrete towers of Los Alamos labs, birthplace of the bomb that flattened the city where my wife's people come from. I follow her eye line over there. Someday, we'll need to bridge this gap and complete the pilgrimage.

I later find myself alone, off-trail across this mesa topped out with scrub. It narrows to a dull, rounded edge, like the prow of a ship cutting across this ancient seabed. I sit awhile on a disembodied boulder, wondering what to call those peaks over there, still snow-capped this late in Spring. Brother raven flies over to check me out, squawking a greeting. The rain eventually drives me from this aerie, and I scramble down the rock face, leaping the last few feet onto the next shelf. There's far less wind on this eastern face. I follow a narrow white band as trail, passing beneath petroglyphs and yellow splashes of lichen. I find a cave and climb in, to meditate on the crystaline sand floor and dip into Nanao. I come across this:

Underground deep
fossil cave dark

you sit down
might be midday

someone comes in
you can't see him, hear him, touch him

still someone with you for sure;
is he friend or devil?

you don't care
all the same

you smile
he looks blank
I burst into laughter

no body
wave after wave

On the turntable: Julian Cope, "Rite Now"

Sunday papers: Yukio Mishima

"The law is an accumulation of tireless attempts to block a man's desire to change life into an instant of poetry."
--Runaway Horses


On the turntable: Built to Spill, "There's Nothing Wrong with Love"

Sunday papers: Andre Dubus

"A cliche is just an out, it just sort of hangs around and waits for someone to use it and when you do use one it saves you from having to think."

On the turntable: Rolling Stones, "Hot Rocks"

Weird Scenes Inside The Gold Mind

I'm not after mindfulness as much as knowing the self.

Obsession on Emptiness and Form. Astronomical black holes as tangible evidence of this duality. Spending a day in silence doesn't cover the cacophony of thought. The two Suzukis: D.T.'s emptiness of zen scholarship vs. Shunryu's form of practice. (Or vice versa perhaps?) Shunryu's sowing the seeds of practice in American soil, hoping some would blow back across the sea to Japan and germinate as revolution in temples there.

The way Americans overuse the word 'Master.' But who truly knows everything about something? No one I've ever met. We can't even master the fundamentals of being human. Breathing? Not from what I've seen as a yoga teacher. Eating? I see obesity everywhere. Defecation? The TV is loaded with commercials for irritable bowel syndrome, constipation, hemorrhoids. Let's save the word "Master' for golf, shall we?

Having children is an act of optimism.

Ken looks younger every time I see his photo, as if he is receding while I grow older...


On the turntable: Tounami Diabate, "The Mande Variations"

Notes from Upaya

I'm housed in a room called 'Tatami," which is a wide space over the offices. To enter, you need to express humility by ducking through a low door, then do a Quasimoto-like lurch beneath the 5 foot ceiling. The very first night, I smash my head into the metal latch that hangs down from the center of the doorframe. It takes over an hour for the blood to clot.

One night in zazen, I'm obsessing on my desire for popcorn. Just after we finish sitting, I go over to the Querencia kitchen to find that one of the priests has just freshly popped some. (Cue The Police.)

Throughout the month, I'm enchanted by the colorful birds, mostly hues I'd rarely seen in Japan. They are a living palate against the monochromatic winter desert landscape. One afternoon I go sit above the snow-obscured stream to watch them. Time, and the afternoon, soon disappears. At night I'm serenaded by coyote song, their yip yip yips awakening me. I aurally track their progress along the stream below. Some nights they are echoed by the barks of dogs, apparent frustration at a cruel twist of DNA.

One silent lunch period, I find myself staring down into my bowl of quinoa. The cooking directions say that they are ready when the white DNA ring is visible. But caught up as I am in the concentration of the retreat, I'm hypnotized by the sight of the atomic element on display before me, momentarily having penetrating into the heart of reality.

One afternoon, there is a wedding. The bride is in a beautiful, though unorthodox, white dress. Like a geisha's, her dress was dipping in the back, but it didn't stop at the upper shoulders. Instead it hung all the way down to the small of her back. Traditionally in Japan,the back of the neck is considered the most sensuous part of a woman's body. In seeing all the way from nape to waist, I felt like I was exposed to secrets I wasn't privy to, the dark mole set against white skin, the knobs of vertebra leading downward to softer, rounder, fleshier bits.

The energy rushing up my spine, swirling around my heart, softening flesh that has been like protective leather for so long. Healing.

At breakfast, I smear what I think is green chili on my eggs, then, while expecting the usual blast of huevos rancheros, my taste buds instead are numbed by the taste of tahini.

All month, sitting eyeball to eyeball with Green Tara's dog (which I later learn is named Dominga, and belongs to Roshi). On my cushion in front of the painting, every day I'd find my attention drawn deeply into a different detail. Like the mind. Like life.

When I first started sitting zazen at temples in Japan, I loved all the accompanying ritual. Here I find resistance to it, especially the English chants. The Japanese use the phonetically (Sino-ized) Sansrkit. Why can't the Yanks?

As the snow continues to build up, I'm beginning to get worn down by the lack of color. The sudden glimpse of a blue shovel leaning against a fence is the most colorful thing in the world.

Watching guests do their training brings to mind how attached we are to habits. One guy does zazen in his jeans, cell phone still strapped to hip. A women does outdoor walking meditation with sunglasses on. Another woman in expensive designer wear looks terribly uncomfortable pushing a mop. But who am I to judge? Most of these people have a stronger meditation practice than my own. (Where the dharma sideswipes my bad habits would fill an entire blog.)

During the silent retreats, I find myself doing zazen everywhere, eyes pointed down in that 50 yard stare, following a breath coming with ease.

Getting vibed by a few women after Eve Ensler's talk. It reminds me of how teen boys, after seeing a kung fu film, leave the theater jumping around and kicking stuff.

Outdoor kinhin, like a samba line of awareness.

During a meditation exercise, the difficulty I had in connecting with a childhood memory. The way my back softened when I looked into my partner's eyes. How hard it was to hold it.

Natalie Goldberg's comment: "Why would you write a memoir if you have no regrets?"

How anger can be fuel for powerful meditations.

The final day, a thunderstorm comes over violently. We keep to our cushions, sitting strongly, holding the space, the silence. I feel a connection with everyone then, and my eyes fill, feeling the love.


On the turntable: Midlake, "The Trials of Van Occupanther"

Sunday Papers: Karin Muller

"He has traveled halfway around the world to fulfill his life's desire -- given up his family, country, and language -- and accepted with equanimity the slurs and slanders of a system that cannot reconcile itself to the landscape of his face."

--Japanland


On the turntable: Geraldo Pino, "Heavy Heavy Heavy"
On the nighttable: Satish Kumar, "Earth Pilgrim"

Dust

I'm in Santa Fe, training for a month at Upaya Zen Center, and having a fine time, thank you. The hours of meditation, the long work periods, and all the snow are helping to ground me in this land of big skies.
Yesterday, while sitting on my cushion and polishing the mirror, a limerick showed up in my head like a surprise guest:

There once was a person of zen
Who pondered the now and the then.
He sat on his seat,
Losing touch with his feet,
Counting breaths that never seemed to reach ten.


On the turntable: Morcheeba, "Dive Deep"
On the nighttable: Michael Downing, "Shoes Outside the Door"

What Goes On

The theme of the three day drive was snow. But unlike the subsequent storms going on back East, this snow behaved itself by staying on the desert and off the roads. On the far-off mountains it looked like punctuation. This enabled us a beautiful ride, free of anxiety. Needless to say, it was a far cry from the tropical weather we'd left two days before, our companion during a two month clockwise circumambulation of Southeast Asia.

The snow began at Tahoe, coating the Sierras as they stretched south to house some of the most spectacular scenery in the country. We overnighted at Lee Vining, beside Mono Lake, in a motel whose roof threatened to calve icicles big enough to pierce the roof of our rented 4x4. Not far from here, beyond a Mammouth enshrouded in ground fog, was Bishop, CA and the western terminus of Route 6. This was Kerouac's famous Road, the ribbon he hitched -- or tried to hitch -- from his home in Lowell, Mass., 3205 miles away.

Out here in Nevada, there wasn't much. Besides Tonopah and Ely, there weren't any other towns, despite what the maps said. These settlements which had promised gas and food on paper were simply a handful of rotting shacks. And they had been empty for some time. The only life were animals scrambling through the white world -- elk, coyote, cattle on a drive of their own. When we eventually spotted Salt Lake City through a break in the hills, it looked like the biggest city in the world.

We braved gusts through a long canyon whose high cliffs were hemmed in with the spirit of indigenous people as vanished as those folks back in Nevada. The snow seemed part of the conspiracy. Colorado thrust up next, with moneyed ski towns showing an ignorance of history, masked as optimism.

Two nights in Boulder, and a parking ticket-tape return. Where Kerouac had been driven by his visions of Cody, I had mine in the form of woodstove pizza and delightfully hoppy IPAs. Southbound next into New Mexico, leaving Route 6 behind. Another trip for another day. Home, a concept poor Ti Jean never fully embraced, awaits.

On the turntable: Beatles, "Revolver" (2009 Remaster)

On the nighttable: Erik Fraser Storlie, "Nothing on my Mind"

Happy Nu-hu-hu-hu Year!

So Much Water So Close To Home

My last day in Yonago, I went to see a Doctor of Chinese Medicine about my knee. He told me that my body has too much liquid, and gave me some herbs to remedy that. But how can I escape all this water?

It is beside my train, in the form of a river along which a tug pulls a barge loaded with dirt from what was once a mountain. This train stops at Kinosaki, its passengers disembarking for a three day weekend soaking in hot baths. My next train follows the Sea of Japan, whose rocky shoreline is carved by more water, both serving as natural defenses against ancient enemies.

In Yonago, I spend a few days feeding on crab and other things that this water offers, as if trying to instantaneously recoup the 7 kilograms lost during a 10 week walk.

Another train struts along other water, trapped in rice paddies now plowed into hourglass shapes. At Gotsu I follow the Ko no Kawa south to spend a couple days with Jake. On one of these we watch the water leap and rush through the narrow Senjokei. A month ago, Kagura performers mimicked this movement as they danced in the surrounding shrines now quiet on this warm autumn afternoon.

Thumb south to Tomo no Ura and Sensuijima floating in the Seto-Naikai. I hike around what the locals call `kemono no michi,` or trail of beasts. Where there are views, I sit and squint at the words on a page in the glare of sunlight reflecting brightly on water. I`ve always had a great attraction to these waters, love to walk the desert-like hills high over the waves. I often escaped down here with friends long returned to their homes, far away where water merges with other water. And I too will be soon gone, and the sentimentality I feel is a weight heavy, like the Bizen cup from which I drink my beer. I toast these ghosts, and then again. There is always the feeling of aware in off-season beach towns, yet mine is compounded and I often feel near tears. Leaving this country is like a breakup with someone I`m still deeply in love with.

There is other water too: at the end of the narrow alleys of Tomo no Ura; along the waterfront of Onomichi, above which I wander the hills between old temples; forming the spread fingers of the Hiroshima delta; at the southern edge of an overly built-up town facing Miyajima, where I spend my final days.

And the sentimentality lasts, though it could be that I have far too many minor chords on my iPod, making up the nostalgic songs that themselves flowed through all the different lives I`ve lived here. As an English teacher well-enthused at an expat life. As the husband and father. As a hollow shadow, trying to pull myself from the wreckage of a life destroyed. As a person in reconstruction, rebuilding myself in a new city.

Escape from the water. Tough to do on an island. Today I will cross over it, to see where the flow goes once beyond its limits...


On the turntable: Beatles, "Rubber Soul"
On the nighttable: Robert Stone, "Damascus Gate"