Year-end in Review 1

As the Three Wise Men were led by a light, I too followed light through the latter part of December.

The bridge and bamboo forests of Arashiyama were lit up by multicolored spotlights. Every turn in the path brought a new hue, an ethereal quality to the air made thick from days of rain. The steam rising from the hot spotlights themselves added to the fairy tale quality. The hillside beyond Togetsu-kyo bridge was lit all across the spectrum, in a way rivaling, yet falling somewhat short, of what nature had done for free a few weeks before. A day of rain had thinned the tourist numbers and some of the more intimate nooks of Sagano were ours alone. The night was cold but the rain had stopped. Amazingly, Starbucks had set up a small kiosk near Torokko Arashiyama Station, warming us all with a free cuppa. During my travels I'd noticed that Starbucks had scored a prime location near every tourist site, but this mobile joe was certainly new. More than the coffee, the light itself warmed us as we wandered the forest, a far cry from the usual cold neon Tanizaki nightmare. If only downtown were lit so well.

On the Solstice itself, we braved more rain to attend a candle-lit event featuring Goma, in a subtemple of Kodai-ji. The event was a mess from the start. The flyers said a 4:30 start, but about 60 of us stood in heavy rain until 5, and the first wails of the didgeridoo sounded well past 5:30. Miki asked about this and was told, No the flyer said doors open at 4:30. So why were we still in the rain a half hour later? The candles were nice, the didge enchanting, but the vibe just wasn't happening for us. Goma went off on a half hour rant about the spiritual qualities of the music, a sound that goes back to a time before words and musical notes. OK, so far. Then he went on about how his dream was to study these meditative qualities using Western science, and I was confused at the contradiction. So Miki and I left then , going back home to a candlelit dinner and "Paris, Texas," a far profounder look at the contradiction between light and dark.

A few days after Solstice was Christmas, and the full moon. Last month, Adam had found some bizarre statue at Kitano flea market. It was a foot high figure of a seemingly Scandanavian shamanic figure, full-bearded and clothed in red like a pagan Santa. He sat in our garden for a month, anointed in falling ginkgo leaves. On Christmas, Miki and I teamed up with JesusChris for a mission to place Santa on a undisclosed mountainside somewhere in the Kyo. Along the way, we met a lone Aussie-Chinese girl walking alone, and she, taking an interest in our quest, rounded out the numbers. We eventually left the trail, following a deer path up to a hidden pond. It was an ominous place, the earth all around it torn open by foraging boars, under a sky going grey toward evening. One particular tree caught our attention, having a number of trunks growing out of a single flat base. We collected branches from the forest floor to build a platform and placed Santa atop it. Then we rummaged around for other bits of forest detritus--pine cones, slabs of bark, sprigs of sakaki. JesusChris left a crystal that he'd found in a cave in northern India. We meditated a while, then finished off with photos and a few rounds of Oms. I can't imagine what this woman we'd met made of us, and I wonder if at some point she feared she might be sacrificed.

Descending into town, a nearby temple had become a film set. The klieg lights coming through the trees threw psychedelic shadows on the pavement, equipment, and everyone's faces. The courtyard on the far side of the temple gate was a bizarre shade of blue, and some of this light flashed off the sword swirled by one of the actors. We stayed awhile to watch them set up a single shot, of a horseback ninja riding up to the gate, who is challenged by a yamabushi that steps from the shadows. You too can share in some of this light as it reflects from your TV set in the guise of an NHK samurai drama called, "Kurama Tengu."

Fade out 2007.

May the New Year bring you much light...

On the turntable: The Waterboys, "Fisherman's Blues"

Year-end in Review 2

Mid-month was kabuki.  The Kaomise event brings some of the top names to Kyoto for a month of shows.  The afternoon program had four plays all set in the Edo Period, many dealing with the same themes I have encountered in my study of traditional arts.  I'd never seen real Kabuki before, so off we went.

Minami-za is a beautiful old beautiful dating back to 1694.  We climbed to our cheap seats in the upper reaches of the theater, up a flight of stairs so steep I regretted not wearing hiking boots..  They were high-backed, with a rail in front like a roller coaster.  I had no leg room at all, my knees pressed hard into the seat in front, for the next five hours.  It was like being on a long flight a decade from now.   It took me a while to settle down, and I wasn't the only one.  The first 5 minutes of dialogue were lost due to the Rattler phenomenon that Brady wrote of here.  When the actors' delivery finally reached up here, it was in the affected macho voices of Tom Waits, if he were hung like a tanuki.  Pure, gruff masculinity.  The stage effects were amazing, with unbelievable attention to detail.  Birds sounded, blossoms fluttered, the delicate subtle indication of a season's passing.  Action behind the scenes was silhouetted as if it were happening by candle light.  Even the veranda around the Shogun's retreat had the squeak of nightingale flooring. The crowd was enthusiastic and I'd  long been waiting for the kakegoe shouts done at the appearance of an actor, or to show appreciation of certain grandiose displays of emotion.  Their timing really helped emphasize the "ma."  The lighting at dawn of the final scene where the last Shogun departs for Kyoto was perfect.  

The next show was the Kanjncho story of Benkei and Yoshitsune at the Ataka gate.  I'd  seen this story performed twice before, once at firelit Noh at Osaka Castle, and in an early Kurosawa film.  The acting was top-notch though overwrought.  Kabuki is obviously the expression of emotion, but to an ignorant spectator like myself, a lot of it had the emotional depth of a Busby Berkeley film.  The moral I got was that in a thousand years we've gone from sentimental border guards to fingerprinting machines at immigration.  

After an incredble bento, the second half began.  Midway through the third show--a sentimental tale of giri--my attention began to wane.  I looked around at dozens of people dozing off with full bellies.  Below me were the rich seats,covered by an array of brand name clothing, and I imagined the days when a kimono clad crowd resembled a field of flowers.  The final show was a shorter dance piece, but I could no longer ignore the pain in my knees.   I walked around awhile, admiring the architecture.  In the lobby, a stage hand clad all in black dozed in a chair.  It was the purest display of humanity I'd seen all day.

On the turntable:  John Fahey, "Womblife"

Year-end in Review 3

Miki's Tai Chi group is an amazing bunch. They have a very full schedule, including aikido, hiking, social dance, and a plethora of Chinese martial arts. Their Xmas party had demos of each of these (except for hiking, unless some folk chose to take the stairs to the Hotel's eighth floor), with the main event being a formal dress-up dance cotillion. Moments after arriving, Miki's senior in Tai Chi came over to greet us, then immediately took my hand and led me out on the floor. Back in Eighth Grade, I'd had weekly dance lesson along with the rest of my class, yet my skills apparently hadn't graduated with the rest of us. To further embarass myself, I asked Miki's sempai, (who happened to be model gorgeous), if my hand, which rested mere inches above her bottom (also model gorgeous), was in the right place. She said, not exactly, and moved it about a foot higher up her back. The redness in my face I played off as the effect of the wine. The song ended, but this coerced dancing never ceased. If anyone was caught standing and chatting (you know, the "social" part of social dance), they were led quickly onto the dance floor. In one case, some guy grapped Miki away as we were in mid-sentence. In my native New Mexico, lesser acts have led to pistols at dawn. The most amazing part is how little fun everyone was having. They all seemed so intent on their dance steps, even doing the obligatory "Sei, no!" before starting. Miki and I seemed to be having the best time, laughing as we worked through a reasonable semblance of what everyone else was doing, yet moving with the grace of a car on ice. Four left feet in action. And I can't see how everyone missed the sheer hilarity of it all. These dances of my grandparent's day done to the music of my own. Foxtrotting to Michael Jackson! Rumba to Madonna! Waltzing to the theme from 'Chariots of Fire!'

And a good time was had by two.

On the turntable: Widespread Panic, "Live in the Classic City"

Year-end in Review 4

The Origin arts foundation has a new machiya down in Gion, and we were invited to the opening party.  We sipped wine as Bodhi, the manager showed us around.  It was a breathtaking house, a perfect blend of Japanese aesthetic  (huge beams carved from tree trunks older than my country,  steep stairs moonlighting as dressers, the bath an oversized hinoki sake masu)  and Western function (hidden indoor heaters, high tech toilets).  An apprentice maiko danced for us, then came over to chat as I reached for my second piece of sushi.  Her face and makeup were perfectly sculpted, but I found her dense Kyoto dialect impenetrable, so I politely moved on toward other, easier conversations.

On the turntable:  Eels, "Beautiful Freak"

On the nighttable:  Donald Richie, "A Tractate on Japanese Aesthetics"

Year-end in Review 5

Any warm sunny day this time of year should be considered a gift, even if that gift will eventually come with a heavy pricetag. And December had warm sunny days aplenty.

On one Saturday, Miki and I decided to do part of the Kansai 33 Temple Kannon pilgrimage. I'd done 24 of the 33 temples in June, 2002, a time that I consider to be amongst my most memorable in Japan. During the day, I'd wander the countryside, hitching from temple to temple, then head back into one of the three major Kansai cities to watch a World Cup soccer match with friends over beers. I'd also found time to visit a few aikido dojos and for some Zen training in my favorite temple. That summer, there was one segment I didn't do, the long haul over the mountains from Daigo to Ishiyama dera.

We got to Daigo early. Due to the ongoing construction, we forewent the temple's lower gardens and structures, and went straight up the mountain. The leaves were still in color, and the long flights of stone were littered with the first of their suicidal numbers. We eventually came to Daigo-ji's upper reaches, with fantastic wooden statuary and incense smoke hovering in the cold shadows. It had been a long ascent, so we sat in the sun drinking lukewarm tea and eating bread. The trail dropped straight down the opposite side of the mountain, but we got sidetracked by a smaller trail leading to Daigo-ji's deepest reaches. At its end, we found a narrow cave with small pools of water around the altars. I shined my torch into the darkness beyond, but mysteriously, the battery gave out just then. After a brief prayer, we followed another side trail which led to a pile of boulders offering views of the valley below. I gazed over the mountains beyond, slightly uneasy. We had no maps and didn't know the direction or the distance involved. But a pilgrimage is all about trusting in the local gods. Our feet would do the rest.

The forest below was a patch of land beautiful and unmolested. A rickety old bridge crossed a brook which led us into the valley. It was warm and sunny again down here. An old woman was selling vegetables from a roadside stand. Miki chatted with her awhile as I moved some boxes she'd been struggling with. My reward was two mikan big as softballs. The valley was wide and pleasant, close to Kyoto yet feeling remote. At the far end, a path took us again into the hills, beneath low hanging bamboo trees and signs warning of poisonous vipers. We had lunch atop the ridge, washed our hands at a small shrine, asked directions of a couple of young potters who dressed and talked like gangsters.

The path led us into the afternoon. At its end we arrived at Ishiyama Temple. A woman noticed us in the courtyard and gasped. She'd seen us from a bus full of old women that had passed us hours ago. We wandered the temple grounds, up the hills to the hidden parts beyond. It was a wonderful place, but we slightly cheated it in being tired. We'd been amazed already today by Daigo-ji, and had walked 23km since then, up and down over four ridgelines. Exiting, we saw the sign saying the train station was yet another kilometer walk away. Groaning, we pushed on toward the train which would take us home.

On the turntable: Philip Glass, "Satyagraha"

On the nighttable: Jan Blensdorf, "My Name is Sei Shonagon"

Sunday Papers: Andre Gide

"One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time."

On the turntable: Van Morrison, et al., "The Skiffle Sessions"

On the nighttable: Garrison Keilor, "We Are Still Married"

With apologies to Sei Shonagon...

Hateful Things in Autumn:

Lazy monks with leaf blowers

(Surely there's a koan here somewhere, relating, no doubt, to dust alighting).

On the turntable: Roland Kirk, "Live in Paris, 1970"

On the nighttable: Bruce Chatwin, "In Patagonia"

Awash

I realize that didn't post much in November. When I returned to the Kyo in late October, I'd made a pact with myself not to leave the country for a year. It was time to hunker down and get to work. For the first time since I moved down here, I felt I could finally commit to this city. So it was that I began to be more proactive about finding yoga students, began to set up yoga workshops for next spring, began to hang out with friends more, began to take my personal yoga and budo training more seriously. Plus the resumption of essay hell, and a few other pleasant surprises, about which I'll write when and if they arise.

There was of course time for fun. One afternoon, while having tea with Big Paul C, we saw Adam strolling up the Kamogawa. He joined us, and the nature of the conversation turned to things more historical. I immediately likened him to a modern day Bruce Chatwin, for his breadth of knowledge and infectious zeal for life. He spoke of a sword hidden in the deep mountains of Tokushima, unconsciously pulling his shawl around him like a wizard's cloak. The next day, he invited Miki and I to come out to Chiiori, in the deep Iya wilds of Shikoku. We rented a car and crossed Awaji, passed Tokushima city, and went over three high passes, bisecting the three Iya valleys. Our route followed that of the Heike as they fled in defeat 800 years before. The beauty of the area required many photo stops, and its danger had us take a long detour around where the land had slid, covering the road. We arrived at Chiiori long after dark. It was mellow and peaceful up there, eating and staying warm around the fire as the frozen rain fell outside. When the sun was out, we braved short walks, or sitting on the hillside looking at a somewhat Himalayan landscape with Tsurugi-zan looming over all.

Another weekend, Miki and I hiked from Kurama to Takao, climbing two passes and staying high in the mountains north of the Kyo. Along the way we came across a hunter and his dog out looking for deer or wild boar. It was the first time I'd seen a gun in this country, but it brought on thoughts about greater dangers: Were bears, usually in their winter dens this late in the year, still foraging on these unseasonable warm days? Shortly after, another sign confirmed our fears. As we approach a trail marker, we jumped backward when we noticed a poisonous viber enjoying the sun at the marker's base. Our walk took us through a beautiful remote village high in the hills, and to the shores of a small lake, unspoiled by concrete. It was encouraging to see a place with no traces of development, and we weren't the only ones to think so. Nearby, a film crew cranked out the latest episode of the samurai drama, Mito Komon. The cast and crew had lunch in their trucks while the lighting crew faced the challenge of filming under a sky constantly changing.

Back in the city, there were parties. We attended the Kyoto premeire of Gaia Symphony 6. Afterward, there were drinks. I talked a while with Jin Tatsumura, the film's director. There were also lots of people in the alternative health field, and quite a few scholars. One professor jittered and twitched as we talked with him, and if this were a different country, and a different decade, I'd have guessed he was pretty coked up.

During the last week of the month, there was a wine tasting party at @Cafe, and a couple farewell bashes for friends seeking other alternatives. At one of these, Sam was tap-dancing along to a jazz band. Each of his footfalls seemed to mock me, as if counting down the days until my own eventual departure.

Autumn was warm this year, and the koyo hunters were no doubt disappointed. We too followed the leaves through their changes. Each day was like watching a striptease in extreme slow motion. The Path of Philosophy gets a lot of traffic this time of year, and two temples were open for only a few days. Reikanji with its surprisingly large garden and lovely screens. Anrakuji, with the gorgeous moss covered gate, and the trimmed shrubs out back, marching toward the borrowed scenery like an army of helmeted warriors. Further North, Sekizan Zenin hid away from the crowds, the late afternoon sun pulling details of highly elaborate craftwork out of the shadows. The trails behind our place lead up to Uryu-zan, then around to Tanuki-dani. The ridges leading south mocking the technicolor neon of downtown. And gosho itself, with fewer trees, but whose gingko stand high and proud and with undeniable majesty....

On the turntable: Xymox, "Phoenix"

On the nighttable: George Leonard, "Mastery"

Anger Begets Disgust

Your friends back in the States are jaded.  They tell you how lucky you are to be far overseas, away from the madness.  You laugh and tell them of raised airfares due to fuel prices, and of the increasing xenophobic paranoia of your host country.

Then winter comes.  And you read of the elderly freezing to death up north, unable to afford the kerosene which costs twice what it did last year.  And you read of elementary schools cutting lunch programs, since it costs too much to ship food in.

And you think of the men in charge back home, and how satisfied they seem with their Middle Eastern Follies..

   

On the turntable: Nine Inch Nails, "The Fragile"

On the turntable:  Vikram Seth,  "Golden Gate"

Slouching toward Shakadani

I don't write about it much, but the main reason I moved to the Kyo was so that I could study Takeuchi Bujutsu, the oldest extant jujutsu style in Japan. This nearly 500-year old system was born in the deep mountains, so it's fitting that my dojo sits on a mountaintop above the Northwest corner of the city. It is a mysterious, and quite often, a spooky place. A few weeks back, my sempai Tony and I were talking out front of the dojo after practice. Up above us, something large was moving steadily but stealthily down the slope toward us. "A tengu?" Tony asked. I yelled into the dark, "Teach us some sweet swordsmanship!"

It's getting cold in the Kyo now that it has hit December, far too cold to ride my Vespa up there. I prefer an hour of reading in the warmth of a bus. I'd noticed that there is a set of stone steps leading from near the bus stop, and wondered if they were a shortcut to the top of the zigzag of streets leading up to the dojo. Last Saturday night, I took a torch with me and decided to explore. The steps leave civilization quickly, entering a dark and dense bamboo forest. Midway up this trail is a small pond. I'd had my iPod going, but above it I thought I heard something. I took off the headphones to hear something enter the water. Not a loud sudden splash of a startled animal, but the slow deliberate movement of something trying not to be heard. Like something hunting. I shined my light over the surface of the pond, but it was glassy, without a single ripple. I usually feel quite at ease in the wild, but on this occasion, my blood turned icier than the winter air. I hurried up the hill, shining my light wildly behind me every few steps until I entered the safety of the dojo.

And then I asked myself, quite seriously. Are kappa real?

On the turntable; David Byrne, "Rei Momo"

On the nighttable: Gary Katzenstein, "Funny Business"

Sunday papers: Ogden Nash

“Translations are like mistresses: the beautiful ones aren’t faithful, and the faithful ones aren’t beautiful.”


On the turntable: Timbuk 3, "Eden Alley"
On the nighttable: Paul Auster, "Oracle Night"

Ceci n'est pas une gripe

From Campbell, "It is the predicament of the neurotic that he translates everything into the terms of infantile sexuality; but if the doctor does so too, then where do we get?"

After a century of Freudian psychology grounding the self in the lower, primal, animalistic states of existence, is it any wonder the West dictates value in terms of sex and glory, wealth and fame?

On the turntable: McCoy Tyner, "Inception"

On the nighttable: Joseph Campbell, "Primitive Mythology"

(Workin') On the Road Again

A mere two days after coming back to Kyoto, I was on the move again. Ezaki Mitsuru was again in need of people to help fire his kiln. Figuring that working 'round the clock would be a sure fire way to beat jetlag, off we went.

So it was that three weeks to the day after saying, "Mata ne!" to the Atlantic, a week to the day after saying "Hello" to the Pacific, I crossed a bridge which brought the Nihonkai into view, reminding me of Ray Carver and his "so much water so close to home." (I'm going to stick with the term, 'Nihonkai,' not wanting to take sides in the playground spat over Japan Sea and East Sea. Maybe they should just call it, "The Sea that Divides.") The men in blue flared trousers were still hard at work fixing the road damaged in the Spring quake. When I'd come up here in May, there had been only three or four spots which had collapsed into rice fields below. Today new sections were being laid down in huge kilometer-long swaths, and the traffic delays were worse than they'd been 6 months before. Unlike the American solution of a band-aid on an amputation, here it's more of a heart transplant to treat high blood pressure. I think I get it now. The puppets in the Ministry of Construction must see natural disasters as gifts from the kami. Behind them, their construction industry master rub their hands with glee.

Anyway, Ezaki's works that we helped cook are currently on display in Tokyo. Check it out:
http://themilkyway.air-nifty.com/blog/2007/10/post_b9b5.html



On the turntable: "Anthology of American Folk Music"
On the nighttable: W.S. Maugham, "Far Eastern Tales"

Autumn Nocturne

I can't finish writing on my US trip without mentioning the music. Road trips require good tunes, a tradition dating back to those settlers who boogied to the percussive clip-clop of horse footfalls.

The backroads of Vermont, miles ticked off by gentle guitar chords. Bonny "Prince' Billy, Elliott Smith, and Bright Eyes played heavily here.

Massachussetts was all Led Zeppelin.

In New York, my iPod was heavy with late 70s punk and New Wave. The Ramones were a big fave. The history of music is chock full o' songs bearing the city's name, and I mined my folders for these. Michael's nouveau Japhy Ryder bungalow rang out with the voice of Lou Reed, first the obligatory New York and later with Magic and Loss, this latter having special resonance for my new friend. I'd forgotten just how incredibly dark that album is. As Spinal Tap says, "There is none more black." Later on a street corner in the Village, we heard Joe Walsh's "In the City" playing in some shop. But nothing, nothing, sounds better for a late night stroll of Manhattan boulevards than Moby at high volume.

Arcadian coast of Maine and Atlantic Provinces were predominately Celtic. Quebec tunes sung in French.

The nature of Phoenix Rising tends to pull me skyward, so at lunchtime I'd blast hardcore, a sort of sonic pair of heavy soled boots to keep my feet on the ground. Tapping.

Pickin' and grinnin' along the windy coast of Big Sur and Carmel with folk and bluegrass.

And finally, as is custom, at that moment where the journey is done and centrifugal force pulls me out of the U-turn toward home: Cornershop's, "Good to be on the Road Back Home Again."
A must.


On the turntable: Sting, "The Dream of the Blue Turtles"
On the nighttable: Wolf Lowenthal, "Like a Long River"

Rounding Third and...

After I left Montreal, it was if someone hit the Fast Forward button, and the next two weeks passed at great speed. Montreal is only a couple hours to Vermont, but in this narrow strip I met a girl who had no English and spoke French in a dialect which made no sense to me whatsoever. My next encounter went little better. The official at the border crossing with New York state was a true prick, a real standout in his profession. The way he sneered at my having been in Canada was filled with a malice toward any American who had the nerve to want to leave his fine land. I thought about how the first impression most foreigners have of the US is formed while dealing with guys like him. Little wonder we are so hated abroad. A beer and a walk in Burlington did well to calm me.

That night began my 5th and final week in Bristol. I felt I edged down what felt like two paths superimposed on one another: one of much-needed technical PRYT training, the other an intensely personal journey of pain and self-discovery. Elizabeth Gilbert's book weaved in and out, making up my nighttime reading and lending bits of wisdom eerily related to what I was experiencing during the day. I finished the week drained but strangely elated. During the downtime, I took my seat at the bar of the Bobcat or in one of the Adirondack chairs out front of the bakery, my face turned toward the sun rising over the hills at the end of Main Street.

My five weeks in the East came to an end on a clear day when I flew down to Raleigh. My plane looked down on the magnificent colors below, giving way to mountain ranges further south, laid out in parallel rows like berms. The next few days were spent at the house of my sister and her family. I have bad luck with the weather in Raleigh, and this town which had been facing severe drought got a third of its needed rain in five days of thunderstorms which oddly reflected the ice storms of my previous visit. I only left the house twice. Pete had scored center-ice, fourth row tickets for a Carolina rout of the Buffalo Sabres. This was pure Americana for me--a high speed, in-your-face event where the potential for violence was imminent. Not being a hockey fan, and holding no familiarity to the local team, I had a moment where I shut down completely due to lack of a fixed reference. This happens sometimes when I go back to the States, a reminder that being Lost in Translation can also work in reverse. Oddly enough the reference I did have (besides the end-of-empire, Roman bloodlust, crowd mentality thing) was that I followed the action in how I related it to soccer. Which just goes to show just how internationalized this lifelong basketball fan has become.

The next morning Meghan and I had breakfast in the brick downtown of Raleigh. It was the total Southern package, grits and bad coffee served up by waitresses who call you "Hon." Around an adjacent table, four suited (no seersuckers unfortunately) bigwigs were having a power brekkie, casually going over the day's biz, before reworking it back at the office. One guy was a figure of incredible girth, and another had a thick growth of bangs which hung down his face like a beaver's tail. A hundred Southern book- and film-characters danced in my mind.

I spent the last weekend in Monterey with Ben-chan. The flight over looked down on the Sierra's covered with fresh snow, bringing me full circle to May and those same peaks slowly going topless for summer. On the drive down from SFO, I took the wrong exit, leading me up over a high pass to startle a deer on the side of the road, waiting to cross. The next day, Ben and I drove down to Big Sur, stopping in at the Henry Miller library and for a quick peek at Esalen. We also got in a couple hikes, one up above the redwoods onto trails lined with mesquite and poison oak. Another trail led through high grass to a beach of stones, driftwood, and kelp strands thick as bungee cords. Sunday, we alternately biked along the shore to a popular surf break, then back through Cannery Row. Commercialism has whitewashed the place, making it now unrecognizable from Steinbeck books or my last visit 21 yeas back. The history is completely gone, the factories serving little purpose but to bilk tourist dollars. May as well call it Chicanery row now. Downtown Monterey was nicer, rust-colored tiles over bleached Spanish walls. Though I rarely miss Santa Barbara, being back on the Central Coast made me frequently reminisce about my three years there. A nice warm-fuzzy ending to a long, meandering year of journeys.

Once again I found myself on a plane. Once again I lost a day. The train took me through Osaka, all bright and neon and looking quite CG after the truer colors of New England autumn. (How much nicer to re-enter this hideously ugly city at night!) This train took me to Paul and Marla's three hour yoga workshop, which I somehow survived despite my ragged condition. But like all the other days, I always know that there's a warm bed at the end, even if I don't know where that bed is.
Good night.



On the turntable: The Replacements, "All Shook Down"
On the nighttable: Mo Yan, "Big Breasts and Wide Hips"

Sunday papers: Henry Miller

"It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the world--it's the American way of looking at things"


On the turntable: Joe Jackson, "Look Sharp!"
On the nighttable: Seta Jeter Naslund, "Ahab's Wife"

Sunday papers: Bruce Chatwin

"Religion is a travel guide for settlers."

On the turntable: Yo Yo Ma, "Classic Yo Yo"
On the nighttable: Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Love, Pray"

Ca et La

Friday morning, I pointed the nose of my car north and followed it. It was a dreary day, less like rain and more like driving thru slow moving water. The first few hours were dull, moving along roads hemmed in by trees and the low clouds like a lid on top of it all. Around noon, I finally reached the Acadia Peninsula, which branches off from Miramichi, a city with a Japanese sounding name and supposedly good fly fishing. I stopped in a small diner for lunch. Inside, the old timers were speaking French and an equal number of younger men in muddy boots spoke an English that was so thickly Canadian that it was almost a parody. The waitresses flowed freely between both. I read a few of the French flyers by the door, then moved on. Signs in French began growing in prominence until out by Caraquet where English was badly outnumbered. As I followed the coast, the sky cleared just enough to reveal the high peaks of the Gaspe Peninsula out across the bay. I crossed into Quebec and cut across the peninsula, finding myself suddenly in an Alaskan landscape of thick wooded hills and rushing streams. The only distinct "back east" touches were the centuries old wooden bridges that spanned them. I was literally driving into fall. Down in Maine, the maples were still yellow, and the orange leaves didn't appear until the Bay of Fundy. Up here, the birch trees had already shed their colors to take on a light gray. From a distance, a mountainscape seemed streaked in a way that resembled the alarming recent changes of my chin stubble. In Quebec, I'd gained an hour, but this far east, not any daylight, so at the coast I called it a night. I stayed in Matane, a town I liked for its Japanese pun of a name. As I ate pasta laced with the region's famous shrimp, the winds coming off the St. Lawrence River shook the restaurant. I barely felt it, my body still vibrating from an 11-hour drive.


I set off the next morning before dawn, driving away from a sun just rising. The streets were empty and none of the houses had any lights on. I played connect the dots with the small beach towns out this way, then crested a foggy which is the last of the Gaspe mountains. On the far side the hills dropped to parallel the shoreline, creating a long flat valley containing a chain of beautiful little farm towns. The rain stopped for awhile, bringing a sliver of blue to the sky which added color to an otherwise black and white day. Unfortunately it didn't last. I followed the farms to Quebec City, where I crossed over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The sky dropped again and erased the view. I followed the highway toward Montreal.

Once in town, I contacted my friend Yvon, who directed me to his house in the northern part of the city. I'd met Yvon at PRYT training back in June, he being the only male besides me. When the rest of the group commented on our bravery, we two males venturing into areas more familiar to women, I countered that Yvon was the truly brave one. I'd been sipping the spiritual waters since university, yet he'd been a CEO of a successful company until the day he'd had an epiphany which led him to gradually shed 50 years of conditioning. He was currently working to bring yoga into the boardroom where he felt it was most needed. This weekend he was out at his country house, but I had free reign of his place in the city. I dropped off my stuff, then walked over to Outremont, following the streets around. The rain had stopped and the weather was perfect for a stroll. High brownstones lined the sidestreets, many with bicycles on the metal fire escapes. The main avenues were a mix of New England town and Paris boulevard, bizarrely perfect in their balance. A few streets over, the neighborhood grew rougher and hints of immigrant populations began to appear, in the form of Greek delis and Lebanese restaurants. Orthodox Jewish children walked in front of one of the three sushi bars on this street. I had dinner in a bistro specializing in mussels, then finished off with coffee at Second Cup, across from a movie theatre which screens French films. In both places, the staff approached me in French, then switched easily to a nearly unaccented English. I sat awhile reading in the front window table until it grew dark. I'd driven eighteen hours in two days and was exhausted.


I awoke early again, and walked through the silent streets past huge homes until I found a series of hiking trails up Mont Royal. A series of switchbacks gave way to a side trail which led into the Catholic cemetery. Looking around I realized that I was surrounded by the graves of children, each stone fronted by stuffed animals or toy cars. Why today of all days? On this date five years before, I'd lost my own son. I gave myself over to grief and cried for a good long time. I wandered the graves awhile, passing rows of markers of those who'd died in the 1950s. Spouses were buried together, and I couldn't fathom how it would feel to outlive your spouse by decades. Other graves were separated by ethnic group. The Chinese had the best spot, up at the top of the hill with a view of the Olympic Park to the west. Nearby I found a narrow path over to Mont Royal itself, with the main part of Montreal spread before me. I wandered down to the gothic stone spires of McGill College, then into the city itself. Down on Rue St. Catherine, I noticed three Natives laughing as they looked into a shop selling Inuit goods. Wearing backpacks and clad as hunters, they looked out of a cliched film about simple natives set loose in the big city, surrounded by well-classed tourists in this ritzy part of town. I followed this street until it began to resemble every other North American city with their chain shops and boutiques. I followed the side roads down toward Vieux Montreal and the waterfront.

Crossing into old town was like crossing the street between New York and Paris. The streets narrowed and became cobblestone. There were horse-drawn carriages down here, carrying tourists with blankets across their knees. In one lane, a pigeon feasted on the grain-flecked horse dung left behind. Down another cobblestone lane, one ballsy guy actually rollerbladed. I navigated these streets on a mission to find poutine, that artery hardening pile of gravy coated cheese fries. Ducking in and out of bistros and sandwich shops. I noticed that the latter were all run by Chinese. I finally found poutine in a cafe near Norte Dame, where I later stopped to light a votive candle for Ken-chan. I spent the rest of the morning down here, popping into shops and walking the lanes. On the waterfront, young couples strolled arm-in-arm or stole kisses down alleys. Seeing them made me miss the other half of my own couple, made me really long to waste away a lazy Sunday with her in some romantic setting like this.

A few more turns brought me to Chinatown, its one lane packed with people. Up the hill further was the trendy Latin Quarter, and the nearby Plateau. Down the old hippie haunts of Rue Prince-Arthur into Square St. Louis, where the hippie's offsprung still smoked dope in front of elaborately decorated Victorians. Up Boulevard St. Laurant now, stopping to read and write over coffee at the hip Cafe Popolo. Further up the street I had dinner with a now returned Yvon and his wife, talking Yoga and Zen over Indian curries served up by fussy waiters....



On the turntable: "Bach Meets Cape Breton"
On the nighttable: Tim O'Brien, "Tomcat in Love"

October 14th Elegy

Eastern Edges

Halifax. My friend Marcin, (who you may remember from our Kyoto adventures) was living here now, teaching at the local university. The morning after I arrived, we had breakfast at the hip Blower's Paper Chase cafe, then walked around the city and along the waterfront. After beers at Garrison brewery, we had lunch at the old Henry House, then drove out to Peggy Cove to hop along the huge granite stones of the shoreline. The sea beyond was teeming. The heads of seals bobbed just offshore, sharing their meal with the seabirds who would dive into the frigid water from great heights. Further out were the fountains of spray of a pod of whales migrating south along the coast. Incredible. Back in town, we chilled out a bit at Cabin Coffee amidst the lounge music and powerful scent of maple. That night was band practice. I met the other three members of the group--all Japanese. Within seconds my body language and style of speaking changed. It is amazing how at home I am in Japanese culture, and how it, not my native North American culture surrounding it, dictates how I act. Rehearsal was fun, watching them run thru some pieces with flute, taiko, and voice. The last hour or so I joined in for a jam session. Later were the obligatory beers.

The next day I was solo. I had a quick swim in a waterfront pool open this late in the year due to the warm weather. I spent most of my day zigzagging up and down the hills of Halifax, looking around the Khyber Gallery and the Art School, hanging out at various coffee shops like the Paper Chase and Just Us!, and tripping over the piles of used books in the bookshops. I probably walked every square meter of the city's sidewalk, seeing the same people again and again. Halifax seems to have an overabundance of the dreadlocked and the homeless. My favorite character was this happy-go-lucky guy that seemed like a drifter with his big fuzzy Abbie Hoffman head of hair, who I most often saw begging change, though I once saw him walking with great purpose down a steep hill toward the waterfront. (To buy a beavertail maybe?) That night Marcin and I met up with the Japanese again to go see the performance Drum! The music was terrific, but the message of harmony through music was a tad overdone and somewhat naive. (Ask the indigenous people their opinion, if you can find any.) Later we all went up to Rogue's Roost for Pub Quiz. Walking home past a centuries old graveyard, I couldn't help but think that the hard work of the dead lying there had a direct correlation in my day.

Another cemetery closed out my visit. I'd been to the Maritime Museum the day before and was surprised to find that many of the Titanic's dead had been brought here since Halifax was the closest port to the site of the wreck. On the outskirts of town I found them, about half lying in graves unmarked for nearly a century. The taller stones told tales of valor and duty that no longer exists, which is perhaps just as well since it led to so many fatalities. Heading back to the waterfront, I looked out into the rainy mist and imagine the Titanic rescue ships coming in, bearing horrors yet unknown to the people watching from the shore.


On the turntable: Prem Joshua, "Water down the Ganges"
On the nighttable: Richard Ford, "Women with Men"