Sunday papers: Comic Strip Presents...

Desmond: "I guess you live for the moment, huh?"

Kix: "Well I am at the moment."

On the turntable: The Free Spirits, "Tokyo Live"

On the reel table: "The Decalogue" (Kieslowski, 1988)

Timeless

By the windowside,

Reading Nihongi.

Shadows of snowflakes

Drift up the page.

On the turntable: Ornette Coleman, "This is Our Music"

On the reel table: "Gloomy Sunday" (Schubel ,1999)

Screen Test

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)

Heard in the Kyo

Miki:  "Yeah, sometimes you'll almost bump into somebody, and they give you an angry look.  But then you say, 'Sorry,'  and they smile."

Ted:  "You all outta be Catholic"

On the turntable:  John McLaughlin, "Extrapolation"

On the nighttable:  Donald Keene, "On Familiar Terms"

On the reel table:  "Dodeskaden" (Kurosawa, 1970)

Hope

Despair

Facing West

Death.   It is the most natural thing in the world, but we never get used to it.  I'm at an age where I have already lost an entire generation of my family.  That was expected -- the old timers go first.

But losing both my father and son in the space of 2 1/2 years wasn't, nor was losing three close friends to cancer, all under 30, in the time between.  I've been awash in death, and it should have become a habit by now, like putting away winter clothes, or that first cup of coffee in the morning.  

Yet every year, I lose someone else.  And it never gets easier...

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "From the Cradle"

On the nighttable:  Masanobu Fukuoka, "The One-Straw Revolution"

On the reel table:  "Reds" (Beatty, 1981)

One Foot in Front of the Other

In early October, I went to New York to wander the Village with Michael Thaler.  His blog documents not only these walks he'd take, but also his long bout with cancer. I always felt that he was walking so as to stay one step ahead of the disease.  But yesterday, cancer overtook him.

I was happy that I could send him one last email before he died.

Michael,

I haven't known you long, but I feel that we became
close friends in that short time. "Kindred
Spirits," going beyond the cliche. Through our talks
and your writing I feel I have a sense for what a good
man you are. 

I feel honored to have joined you as we walked your
"Songlines" through the East Village back in October,
listening to your stories and meeting many of the
folks who composed your world. The photos you took of
them were your imprints on their lives. 

I have confidence that your Zen and Karate training
have prepared you for your illness, and for the greatest
of foes who waits beyond. Yet I also have incredible
respect for the fact that you see your condition as a
teacher and not as an enemy. There lies the real
courage.

We'll meet again my friend, somewhere, sometime. I'll
again play Shih-te to your Han Shan, as we wander Cold
Mountain, laughing at the rain...

Ted

For Michael:

On the turntable:  Lou Reed, "Magic and Loss"

On the nighttable:  Gary Snyder, "Mountains and Rivers Without End"

Art. Life: The Imitation

The pipes of CLo's shower
bellow
like Tibetan horns

The wavering fue note

which ends "Yatai Bayashi."
As played by car brakes.

On the turntable: Eric Clapton, "Eric Clapton"

On the reel table: "Notebook on Cities and Clothes" (Wenders, 1989)

And then there is this...

http://www.fourstories.org/event-featured.html

Drop by if you feel inclined.  Chairs available upon request...

On the turntable: The Yardbirds, "Five Live Yardbirds"

On the reel table:  "Tokyo Twilight"  (Ozu, 1957)

Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash

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)

Steppin' out on The Blog

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)

Boogie Down a la Rimbaud

I am one of those annoying people who is always wearing headphones. Unless I'm in actual conversation with someone, I am rarely far from my music, which over three decades, has led to an amount only measurable by copious.

I am also one of those people who, when on a bike, don't ride so much as race. Under the iPod, I feel like I'm gliding in slow-motion over the city to my own personal soundtrack.

A side affect of this whole phenomenon is the St. Vitus dance I do while in public, limbs and phalanges atwitch. It takes all the willpower I have not to jump up and down in the vegetable aisle, tracing the shapes of the produce with my bobbing head.

On the turntable: Gov't Mule, "Life Before Insanity"

On the nighttable: Anodea Judith, "Eastern Body, Western Mind"

On the reel table: "A Very Long Engagement" (Jeunet, 2004)

"...and he breathed his last."

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"

Happy New Year!

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"