Kuragari (Ise Hon-kaido I)

I stepped out of the subway station, and look slightly up the hill toward the castle.  The grounds were a Pollock splatter of pink buds, but I didn't detour to investigate whether they were plum or cherry.  Probably the former, as the sakura weren't due for a another few days still.

I grabbed a cheap 380 yen bento, and walked over to Tamatsukuri Inari Shrine, sitting on the steps since benches weren't provided.  This area was once home to the craftsmen who had carved the magatama jewels that were so sacred to the ancient Japanese.  Today, it was a quiet neighborhood, that still held the same slightly working class vibe, personified I suppose by the man who'd made my lunch.  

More importantly, this shrine was the Osaka terminus of the Ise Kaidō.  Just what I needed, yet another road to walk.  I was already in the process of walking a couple of others.  But this particular old path received priority status as it was considered most auspicious to undertake the Ise pilgrimage in a year following the shrine's renewal, a fact I learned from a recent post on my friend John's Green Shinto blog.  I had already planned to walk the Ise-ji section of the Kumano Kodō later this autumn, but now I felt compelled to undertake this parallel, 170 km road as well.  Good thing I bought new shoes last weekend.

I moved downhill, beneath a massive kusunoki standing in the middle of the road, then rejoined grand Nagahori-dori.  Signage was good here, and it led me seamlessly onto the smaller parallel streets that followed what in these early stages was referred to not yet as the Ise-Kaidō, but rather the Kuragari Kaidō, and old road that led from the capital Nara to an ancient part of modern Osaka called Kōraibashi.  The name was reminiscent somewhat of the word "Korea," proving an interesting linguistic parallel since it means Goryeo bridge, a reminder of the strong contacts between Nara and Korea at the time, and may even be where boats from the continent were moored.   

I was curious when the signage would end, and it didn't take long.  I was moving hesitantly into Higashi Osaka proper, along the busy Rte 15, or occasionally beneath the large factories lining the roads that flanked it.  Very run down and rough looking.  A couple of workmen in their 50s gave me a good glare as I passed.  The lack of signs made sense if you consider that it's difficult to care about history when it's hard enough just to focus on the day-to-day present.  


I had been long intrigued with this area, in particular with the section once called Kawachi, since it and its people had been the setting for Imamura Shōhei's first film called Stolen Desire.  The locations of the film reveal a small rural town surrounded by vast farmland.  Today it was all new, suburban, the absolute worst of Japanese development, right down to the rugby stadium in the middle of town, a testament to the rough and tumble people here.  Any time I passed a person of the film's vintage, I wondered if they might have been within Imamura's frame, as so many residents had been extras.  More important was the changes they must have seen during this last half century.   As I walked along, pondering this, Mt. Ikoma rose like a wall ahead of me.  

Before long I reached her feet.  I paid respects to Hiraoka shrine, as picnickers enjoyed the plum groves nearby.  I stepped back onto the concrete path of Route 308, which wound narrow and steep up the mountain's flank.  It wasn't a long ascent, but it was a tough one, forcing me to stop a few times.  I passed a couple of walkers coming the other way, each of whom nodded but didn't say anything as I came past.  Were they trying to emulate the holy men of old, taking some sort of vow of silence on the climb?  

I finally made it to the small hamlet up top, the tea house closed on this Monday.  I moved beyond it, to admire the view of the Nara basin beneath the seasonal haze.  Then quickly down the other side, past the fields and the Basho stone, the stone statues and the small temple halls. When my feet leveled out again, I was at a train station, tired, hungry, and foot-sore.  But the shoes had performed marvelously.  


MAP: http://latlonglab.yahoo.co.jp/route/watch?id=a1b3380854ca35b251629e89901729d1


On the turntable:  The Clash, "The Story of the Clash"
On the nighttable:  Rob Scheltheis, "Bone Games"

Five p.m.

The tree trunk was swinging back and forth, back and forth, in an ever increasing trajectory.  It took a few moments before I saw the man whose hand was on the rope, moving the trunk with the strength  of his black-clad back and shoulders.

The end of this wooden striker was getting closer and closer to the inevitable point where the momentum, aided by gravity, causes it fall forward and strike emptiness, an emptiness given tone, as defined by the iron that surrounded it.  

Dwarfed by the high glass and steel of the city looming above him, the man was standing upon an almost anachronistic platform of wood, nearly the height of the elevated concrete platform upon which I was passing.  This train was of a similar elongated narrow shape as the striker, and it was similarly propelled forward by the hands of a single man.  The train too was operating according the dictates of the clock, and the man with the hands on the controls and the man with his hands on the rope were fated to pass one another in the sky at the same point in the day, though not of the day, as such things are defined by the movement of bodies far larger than those of the two men. 

And as the front end of the train struck out over the front edge of the river, so did the front end of the striker make contact with the iron bell, the sound just audible over the roar of the city and the train and whatever was spilling from my earbuds, a sound that is the traditional marking of time by a religion that doesn't believe in such concepts anyway.    


On the turntable:  Live, "Mental Jewelry"

Taking the High Road

Ikoma's shape is easy to admire from afar.  It rises out on the plain that separates Osaka from Nara.  The low rise of hills rolls south, pointing toward the higher peaks of Katsuragi and Nijo.  Like those latter peaks, Ikoma too was a spiritual center from long ago.  With the trains came the tourists, and later still the maidens of the red-light districts in the towns below.  

We saw more of the former I suppose, a testament to the hiking boom of the last few years.  The mountain's trails weren't necessarily crowded, and brought to mind the numbers seen more often on a weekend day of a few years back.  The numbers are far greater today, Wes assured me.

We'd started our walk from the northern edge of hills intending to walk along the ridge for the better part of the day.  Trains are never fun on an early weekday morning, but at least we weren't heading to an overchilled office.  Cool biz was very much in effect, the legions of men descending the stairs in their white shirts looking like the quick moving water spilling over falls and over black rocks.  In their midst, a group of boys in their school uniforms seemed headed to the back nine. We left them in the bus queue of other students as our own bus pulled away.  

Like many walks down that way, ours started on a busy road.  After about ten minutes we found the first of the parks.  This particular trail, the Ikoma Nature Trail  (生駒縦走)  serves to intersect the many parks up on the ridges of Ikoma.  Most of the parks remained unseen, but the trail took us through the heart of this first one, past the parking lots, vending machines, and toilets that were the habitat of some weird, stick-like insects.  The trail then stayed in the forest, around a few ponds and across a dam.  We descended through a riot of mosquitos, to the farm of a poultry lover, his pens filled with edible birds of various sizes.  We met a highway here, and crossing it, found a quartet of men setting a trap.  When we asked them what they were after, one old-timer mischievously said in English, "Rascal."  I followed with my own joke, asking if they made good eating, which caused all four of the men to turn and look at me simultanously in a chorus of "eeeeh!"   There was another trap not far away, and closer inspection revealed the two 'araiguma' they'd said they'd caught.  Translated directly as "red-bear," we were surprised to find ourselves looking at a pair of American style raccoons.   We wondered if they'd once been somebody's pets, for they seemed unafraid and almost affectionate, as they pressed noses and paws through the cage toward us.  But the gestures of the old man cured us of this notion, as his curled fingers made like the gnashing of fangs.

Wes and continued on through the growing heat, to a soundtrack of baseball players warming-up somewhere beyond the trees.  Along the way was "Ueda Constructions" (sic), whose company logo was painted in a style more often seen on a '60s bungalow of some So.Cal beach town.  The trail finally brought us away from civilization, past a husband-wife farmer team resting in the shade near a surprisingly waterless lotus paddy.  We skirted a golf course through a tunnel of bear-grass, which opened again at a massive stone marked as the god of the Dragon King.  Previously trips to Ikoma have revealed multiple variations of reptilian gods, including those white serpents up on Shigisan.  But despite the hundreds of frogs jumping absolutely everywhere, we didn't see a single snake all day. 

We were climbing some now, so stopped for elevenses at a picnic table in the shade.  We were joined briefly by a cheerful couple who'd just returned from a visit to the States, with obligatory Vegas trip and Grand Canyon helicopter tour.  They stayed close by as we made our way higher, but left us to continue to the top of Ikoma itself.  We kept to the ridge trail, which led us through a park rife with Hibiscus in full bloom.  After dropping down a very warm hillside, we ascended again slightly to a temple that serves as the perfect lunch spot.  Under the shade of rafters, we dined, the scent of green chile in Wes's burrito serving as the madeline to my Proust, prompting me to launch into a long monologue about where I come from.  Wes in turn spun his own like tale.  It was a peaceful place.  I could have happily sat there all day, but the noise of a power weeder started up, prompting us on.

We arrived at a hilltop park just below Ikoma's peak proper.  A dozen or so people were here in post lunch repose, including one guy completely zonked out despite the hot sun.  Wes and I sat atop a rock overlooking Osaka and deciphered landmarks. It was a bit hazy down there in the true heat, but the views were pretty good.  We stopped briefly in a resthouse to buy a cold drink from a surly guy in a bad uniform.  I thought that I'd left him behind, but seemed to be carrying him still, as the encounter prompted a new theory that similar jobs in the States are (generally speaking) usually held by people with a love for the outdoors.  In Japan, many seem to be mere bureaucrats.  Wes told me a few stories about troubles he's had with mountain hut staff up the Alps, a couple in times of bad and dangerous weather.  These instances, and my own, reaffirm another theory I have about attitudes and behaviors following age lines.  The youngest and greenest staff seem paralyzed by rules and aren't able to go beyond them.  The middle-aged are worse, in their mid-level positions and jaded attitudes.  They're more able to think for themselves, yet often chose not to be of assistance in extreme circumstances.  It is old-timers that are the most flexible, humanity reasserting itself over time.   

Our own weather was getting extreme, with the heat rising dramatically as we paralleled the ridgetop skyline road.  We rested in the shade of a lookout, where I cleverly dumped out about a quarter of my remaining water.  The lookout had a set of unsupported stairs that extended diagonally out over the parking lot like a diving board.  I ignored the tingling in the perineum to enjoy the view of Osaka emerging from the haze.  I raised my camera and all lined up for a pic: the city, the bridges of Awaji, the mountains beyond Rokko.   A couple drove up at some point, on an obvious early date, and laughed at the padlocks clasped onto a pair of metal rings placed here by other couples in a significant affirmation of a relationship far further down the line.

We followed the ridgeline, the heat slowing us some.  A few large mushrooms rose from the forest,  their presence alone making me wonder if we'd earlier ingested their party-friendly brethren.  Seven-foot high toadstools, hollowed out, for some unknown purpose?  Yep, the heat was getting to us.  

Past the Jizo of Jūsan-toge, familiar from an earlier hike.  One of the main reason's I'd wanted to do this ridge hike was to see the layout of numerous side trails that ran up from every train station.  We followed one familiar path, over a valley awash with wild hydrangea.  Past a couple picnicking on a bridge.  Past the cult headquarters with it's cool logo. Past another mushroom that is the radar station, then finally to the funicular station and its welcoming cold drinks.

The cablecar was nearly empty, so we sat at the front, looking straight down the tracks, waiting for the ride to begin.  I surely hoped there'd be no rolling blackouts as we made our way down.  Then a series of trains, each growing in length the nearer to Osaka.  The trains grew crowded as we spilled over into rush hour.  Our final ride, seated across from a grumpy old git who kept shouting "Silence please!" despite our conversation being in quiet tones.  Far quieter than him anyway.   He seemed to be placed here as some sort of challenge to the day's theorizing. Challenging Wes believing Osakans are among the friendliest people in Japan.  Challenging me believing old men are more humane.  

But the old man has ridden on now, as have I.  Kyoto bound, emerging from underground just beside the gaudy glitter of Osaka castle.  Far more subtle are the familiar shape of Ikoma rising behind.  Brown and green, moving toward blue as the light goes.

On the turntable:  Husker Du, "Candy Apple Gray"

On the nighttable:  Tim O'Brian, "July, July"

Groups

Drifting into Umeda by train, bluegrass in my ears, the rhythm of the picking moving us forward.  The banjo player on this old classic, 'Lonesome John,' picks as if playing a bodhrán, and is thus the engine of the piece, navigating along a line that extends back to the old country.  And the train is thus propelled into Hankyu Station, above a shrine squat and angular against all that towering glass.  A block away is the Toaster building, with its thin squinty windows.  

Out on the city streets, I have a Ferris Bueller moment when The Smiths enter my ears.  "Good times for a change."  I'm not alone in finding refuge behind the music.  One girl is singing as she strolls up the street.  Here is another difference I've noted upon my return.  Two years ago, young women were criticized for putting on makeup on the train, the current generation's means of blurring the lines between public and private, lines that give definition to this particular culture.  These days, already dolled up like their favorite pop stars, they've taken to singing their songs in front of everyone, the "i" in iPod threatening the wa. 

I too feel a desire to perform, to whip my furled umbrella out like a sword, using some of my finest iaido moves to knock the cigarettes from the mouths of those smokers who walk past.  And the lines again undergo a further blurring, as iai (居合) means literally to, wherever you are, whatever you're doing, "fit in" to your surroundings. 

On the turntable:  Brendan Perry, "Eye of the Hunter"

On the nighttable:  "Forty Stories of Japan"

In Osaka today...

...my heart is still in greener spaces. As in the mountains, rows of pink flank the rivers, dot the hills. In Shin Osaka station, I'm stopped dead by the sight of a massive photo of a mountain ridgeline. This same photograph, in its incarnation as a newspaper cutout, used to hang over my desk in the 'Nog. I'm still struck by the shape of the mountainscape, my feet long to wander her flank. Yet her identity still remains a mystery.

Down in the streets, I'm still dwarfed, still humbled, but here it is by steel and glass. At a glance, I see branches and twigs piled atop themselves in an industrial garage. Two steps on, at a glance, I see that they are hoses and lengths of twisted metal.

Here the air is far less fresh. Sidewalk smokers continue to Speak Lark...


On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Hundred Year Hall"
On the nighttable: Kaoru Nonomura, "Eat, Sleep, Sit"

Deep Osaka 2

But it was during my final visit that I finally came across the heart of Osaka, tracing the roots of its oldest history to an area filled with people living a life without pretense.

Thursday was my last day of work. Afterward, I met up with a handful of friends who we hadn't seen in some time. We met at Tani-9 near the site of the old Naniwa Nagara-Toyosaki Palace which was Japan's capital from 645-654. This is the oldest part of the city, obviously, and an ancient path leads south from there to Shitennoji, the oldest Buddhist temple in Japan. There are many temples and shrines along the way, as well as sections of the old trail, most of them leading up and down steep slopes. A couple of these temples had large stone statues of Fudo, both surprisingly within the precincts of Zen temples, rather than the more likely Mikkyo sects. One large shrine had a section for prayers for the local Tigers baseball team, with home-made folk elements like banners and photos which had been added by fans. The trail winds up at Isshinji, a bizarre mix of international elements. It was the feeling of a Chinese temple, with water and trees and large porous rocks, yet the main hall is definitely Japanese, with beautifully aged wooden steps. A group of monks were chanting nearby, clanging Tibetan looking cymbals to time their chant. Beside the main hall was a smaller hall that held very old stone Buddhas, surrounded by flowers, and lit candles, shrouded in incense in a way that felt more Indian than Japanese. Most bizarrely were a couple halls done in a modern avant garde style of smoked glass and twisted metal. This whole layout was shaded by a tall events hall that mimicked Frank Lloyd Wright.

From the distant past we stepped into the more recent past of Shin Sekai, which leapt out of the postwar films I've been relishing lately. Created in 1912, it was apparently modeled half on Paris and half on New York's Coney Island. (This in itself is interesting, as pre-war Japan felt much more European, and postwar is, well, the 51st state.) The main arcade looks as I imagine the occupation looked with its cheesy shirts and other tat on display, touts hollering in front of oversized restaurants, 50 yen game centers, and wide sidewalks leading to the Tsutenkaku tower. You almost expect to come across remnants of the black market, and this seedy underbelly pervades all. Most of the people here are older, many looking in dire straits. Not homeless, but damn close. A couple guitar buskers are in their sixties. More men of that age sit drinking at make-shift tables, others stand in the many tachi-nomi joints about. There are three movie theaters, which are fronted by those beautiful old painted billboards of what's currently showing. Two of the cinema are for the unseasonal raincoat crowd, but the third has a split bill of a skin flick and the latest Jackie Chan. For some reason, huge gaudy creepy Billiken were everywhere. We walk down Jyan Jyan Yokocho arcade, lined with photos comparing then and now. As usual, the present gets a beating. Many of these shops are small, single counter restaurants, many with long queues even at this early hour. We pass under the JR line, a dark dank tunnel where a few card tables have been set up from which to sell second-hand porn DVDs.

We cross a wide boulevard to enter another arcade, this one much grimier and seedier, if that's possible. A couple cafes have been set up by activists, their facades lined with flyers. The caterwauling of karaoke spills out of many restaurants, drowned by the roar of pachinko with the opening of the sliding doors of the half dozen or so parlors here. People seem drunker here, pedestrians muttering to themselves, bicyclists practicing slalom precision. We pass through this poorly lit zone, on our way to our dinner reservation. As the arcade ends, we find ourselves in Tobita red-light district, a small grid of narrow two-story buildings that have taken the name of a teahouse. Upon approach, you see the mirror reflection of a plainly-dressed woman sizing up passersby, and from front on, you see the girl on display, her clothes and hair and makeup done to perfection, visible in the glare of a spotlight. To my surprise the girls are all young and most of them knock-down gorgeous. I had expected more weathered goods for rent here. Large breasts seem to be the going thing, the cleavage very visible. A few of the girls are uniformed, catering to certain tastes. Even the madams are younger than I'd thought, many probably younger than I. A couple of them beckon me to come closer. One old granny makes me laugh as she says "Dōzo!" in a gravelly voice. I walk a little ahead of my wife, playing the role of window shopper. If a girl makes eye contact, I quickly and bashfully turn away. You can take the boy out of the Catholic church but...

We have dinner at Hiyakuben, an old Taisho building at the red light district's lower corner. Our friends had been wanting to come here for years, but had been afraid. The building's interior is done up in a gaudy style that is a blend of shinto shrine and Chinatown palace. Loads of vermillion, as befitting a former brothel. Each party gets their own room. I'd peeked at other rooms on the way to the toilets; many had small stages and drums for private entertainment. Our own had interesting woodwork overhead, with a raised section at one end that resembled the prow of a small boat. When we opened the screen to look out the window, we found a bullethole. The staff here are a little too saucy and the service brusk, though the food doesn't live up to their pride.

For much of dinner, our conversation had been on the neighborhood outside, and on the trade of its residents. It's amazing how superficially similar to Gion it is, yet the roots much older. After dinner we passed back through, it being full dark now. A car rolled slowly by in front of us, and I made a joke about drive-thru service. Whereas earlier most of the women had been sitting in the doorways, now around half were empty. My eyes drifted toward second floor windows, my ears at attention. How ironic my imagination at work, yet regarding this profession, imagination needs little place. The reality is right there, unadulterated, unabashed.

On the turntable: Flower Travellin' Band, "Challenge"

On the nighttable: Rory Maclean, Under the Dragon"

Deep Osaka

(With apologies to Mikey L.)

During most of this year, I taught a lesson or two a week in Osaka. I'd always disliked that city, turned off by it's ugliness. Yet she finally won me with charm. My students were always open and fun, quick with jokes. After work, I'd usually walk the city's narrow alleys and streets, sometimes its rivers or parks. Most people noted my foreignness, which Kyoto-ites are always too cool to acknowledge. Many times I walked the length of Ogimachi's long arcade, finding more the interesting things down its narrow side alleys. Tsuruhashi was the real gem, the Korea town below the JR station was different world. It has a feel somewhat like parts of Kowloon, and the same sense of an almost subterranean society with laws of its own. This is most definitely not Japan. Amongst its traditional clothing shops and markets I found a chijimi shop that I particularly liked. The three aunties I found there were always happy to take my money and give me grief. Their teasing was refreshing.

Other parts had their own sights and charms. A girl in very high heels trots against the light across the crosswalk, to have a bus nearly sweep her away. Annual hay fever played out in sniffles and sneezes. A half dozen city workers evict a homeless man in the winter rain. The springtime pink surrounding Osaka castle. A sign written with "Amusement Developer" raises a smile. Other signs: "Climax Campaign," "Cook Dolphin." A happy slacker on a train, grinning his toothless smile at everyone. A bicyclist singing to his ipod startling the hell out of a straight-laced salaryman pedestrian. And my favorite, the zig zig girl.

I noticed her coming down the subway steps, moving diagonally from the upper right corner to the lower left. From there she moved diagonally again to the opposite wall, and again, and again, until she was through the wickets and gone. I actually stopped and watched awhile, trying to make sense of her behavior. I wonder too: how does she feel about the linear movement of trains?

On the turntable: Cornelius, "69/96"

Give a Hoot, Don't Commute

I just got home from Osaka, after a quick dinner at Cafe Absinthe, beneath the photos of some of the 100 famous Japanese peaks that Wes climbed during over a period of years. I was tired from teaching two physically challenging classes earlier in the day, the fatigue allying itself with the humidity to get me buzzed on a single pint of Guinness. I smiled as I walked to the front door, coming to a complete stop at the sight of Paris Hilton dining in front of the large open window. Her Russian was absolutely perfect.

With a nice light floaty head, I bounced along through Ame-mura, my first visit in many years to the place that was once a familiar haunt, back in those days when I first came to Japan and needed the occasional dose of Western Civ. I found Midosuji Dōri, and moved in the direction of Yodoyabashi and the train home. I walked the light of the day away, Tom Waits on myPod, admittedly better suited to the grubbier downtown areas that make up the bulk of my city hiking these days. Midosuji is all glass and glitter, boasting of an opulence that seems ridiculous considering the current state of the economy. This is not a street you walk if you're looking for perspective.

You'll see instead a church that is fronted by the pillars like some Wall Street place of worship, throwing shadows across a VW bug garlanded for faux weddings. Or another bank that brings to mind the lobby of NY's World Trade Center, so long as you excise the Excelsior Coffee shop next door.. Or Namba Temple done up in the finest of Soviet architecture, like some double-zentendre ironic protest. Or high-heeled fashionistas who resemble the store front models far less than I do (Though we were all trumped by that middle-aged woman done up like a frilly southern belle.) Or the short-sleeved Cool Biz commuter troglobtyes moving toward their trains. Most intriguing was the guy who awoke after the train doors closed, stood when the seats automatically shifted to the reverse side for the return journey, then sat again to ride back the way he'd come. I speculate on his passing an entire day this way, riding the train the hour it takes to go end to end, nine times a day, hiding from his family the fact that his job is long gone.

On the turntable: Tom Waits, "Spare Parts"

On the nighttable: Ian Littlewood, "The Idea of Japan"

On the reel table: "Porco Rosso," (Miyazaki, 1992)

Watching the Rivers Flow

For two months this winter, I subbed a biweekly yoga class in Osaka. This gave me the perfect opportunity to get to know that city better. Osaka has always been a merchant city, with it's wealth built on the goods flowing in and out along its many rivers. A river walk would be the place to start....

One very rainy afternoon, I decided to follow the Ogawa from where I'd left it at Tenmabashi. Nearly the entire waterfront was under construction and off limits. Most of Nakanoshima was closed to pedestrians as well. I followed instead the alleys running between the water and the large warehouses with their open-mawed garage doors. Considering the weather, this was hardly inspiring. The wall between the river and I grew higher until it cut off my view entirely, and I found myself surrounded by dull grey on all four sides. I went over one street, finding that the faces of the warehouses were even uglier than their backsides. A major disappointment, this. Until recently, I'd always thought Osaka to be perhaps the worst-looking of any city I'd ever seen, but this was based mainly on the ride from the airport into Namba. Unfortunately, this walk was helping to reconfirm my original belief. I carried on though, deeper and deeper through the industrial rain, into a landscape that was almost a parody of a Tom Waits song: Old Dogs and Warehouses.

I finally arrived at the end, and circled back to the Aquarium nearby. Inside I found relief from the rain, in the form of a cafe du Monde coffee and beignet. Ironically, the real highlight was found on the walk back, crossing under the river toward Nishikujo Station. There was a 60s sci-fi film feel here, with the long stairs spiraling around the elevator shaft, and the single bulb lighting up a bored looking guard standing in the middle of the long, narrow, tiled hall.

I had much better luck a month later in walking the Yodogawa. I returned to where Miki and I had peeled off our Kumano Kodo course (same link as above). The riverbed was flat and wide here, and nearly covered in water due to recent rain. I wandered an hour under bridges crossed by trains moving quickly in and out of Umeda, before feeling the need to attend to my stomach. I climbed over a bank and walked into Juso's seedy bar area. A van with a CO2 sticker was parked on a quite street, its driver sitting behind the wheel, creating a different sort of energy in reading a porn mag, I walked below the Love Hotels and Cabarets before finding a place doing Chinese food. Had an interesting physics lesson here, finding that wet soles won't grip on a floor perpetually coated in grease.

Back on the river, to watch a waterskiier go past. The grass of parks gave way to higher reeds, partially hiding the homeless dwellings down here. In following the north bank of the Yodo, I had a fine view of the towers and skyline of Umeda stretching along the water. Osaka's not the most beautiful of cities, but parts of that view certainly impress. Should the city choose to light up those towers with colored neon, it might actually approach the beauty of the waterfront skylines of San Diego or Miami at night. Once beyond the last trainline, I found I was also past the last homeless tents. There was little out here but graffiti and rocks and weeds. Somebody had built a small cairn out of some of the larger rocks, hollowed them out and apparently used it for a fire. The tide was gently lapping, lapping, proving that I was getting closer to the sea. As I was moving steadily west, toward a ridiculously high bridge, the square shapes of trucks moving across silhouetted from behind. Beyond the bridge were the larger shapes of huge freighters and ferries heading out to sea, fading in color as they neared distant Awajijima, curling away to the south. The rocks finally dropped away and nothing but dirt remained. Above it was a long narrow concrete wall, which I walked along, thinking all the while of that Iwai film, "Picnic." The ground started to drop further and further away on the left, and it eventually become too dangerous to continue. I jumped down and looked over at the hellish tangle of the industrial sites on the other side of the river, with their fantastic arachnoidal shapes. Above them stood a pair of towers, with rounded blue caps looking like minarets. Finally, I reached the end, Off to the right was the higher Rokko chain of mountains that define the well-groomed backside of Kobe. I lingered a while, then turn away from the water. I dropped down to a road running along a line of warehouses, the air tasting metallic. This eventually led to a long park which I followed, thinking half heartedly about hitching. But I had some trees over me, there was a bit of green. Besides, a walk ain't complete until you walk back....

On the turntable: Akiyoshi Toshiko, "Four Seasons"

On the nighttable: Zeami, "The Flowering Spirit"

A Thin Slice of Samsara

Saturday was one of those days that was unique, yet typical in many ways. I woke early to catch a 7am train for Osaka. I was subbing at a studio there, covering an early morning meditation class. A few others joined me in the cold of the morning, to sit and stretch and breathe all in preparation for... nothing. Despite the low numbers, I enjoyed the vibe of the class, at the peace and ease I felt in leading it. This month I've been also covering a Sivananda class twice a week, but on those days I feel somewhat at sea. Despite having both extensive training and a license in that style, I feel much more at home with my usual Iyengar. In the Sivananda class I have to leave all my tools at home, since due to protocol, I'm not supposed to adjust or use props. So instead I pace and blurt out instructions, my hands twisting and looking for something to do.

After class I set off up the shopping arcade, looking for a place to have a quick coffee. Some folks are dashing around wearing blue happi, gearing up for some sort of festival. I like Osaka, there's so much life going on here, with little of the mothball smell that can often pervade Kyoto. I find a place that offers cups for 250 yen, so I grab a seat and get a cafe au lait. The decor hasn't changed in decades, and most of the clientele were probably my age when it was built. One middle-aged guy seems to be taking his elderly mother out for breakfast, and she looks thrilled. A greasy haired loner type sits across from me and disappears into a book. I too read awhile. I check my watch from time to time, then head back outside, figuring the Indian place must be open by now. It is. I order a curry and sit in front of a poster of some curvy actress in a sari, standing beside an armor-clad actor who is a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. A shelf nearby sells candles in the shape of seated Buddhas. The perfect expression of tapas.

After lunch, I go underground and catch the train. Back in town, I find I still have an hour to kill. It's reasonably sunny, so I sit on the banks of the Kamo, and read abit. On my iPod, the Silver Jews start up a song called "Bring on the Clouds," and so beckoned, they come. It gets chilly quickly, but I read on. There are many walkers out today, going down one bank. and presumably up the other. One guy wearing Cat in the Hat gloves asks me in polite textbook English if I could please tell him the time. This used to happen back in the 'Nog, but this is the first time I've given an impromptu English lesson here in Kyoto. I shake him off soon enough and out on the river in front of me, a beautiful mallard shakes a tail feather of his own. I go back to my book, reading about the connection between Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism, but I'm tired of reading about Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism. Instead, I watch the river awhile. Some young guy descends a set of stone steps to the water's edge, and due to my reading material, for a moment my eyes are tricked into believing I'm actually in Varanasi, watching someone go down the ghat to do his daily ablutions.

I bike over to the studio, change clothes, get out my mat. I'm leading a workshop on Vinyasa jump-throughs, which is far off my usual yogic radar. I haven't even done Ashtanga for years, let alone teach it. Someday I'd love to get in front of a room full of Ashtangis and put them in an hour long Tadasana, just to watch them twitch. The trick to this workshop is that I'm teaching building blocks, rather than the jump-through itself. No one is expected to master this difficult pose in a single day anyway, so I'm basically giving them months of homework. Back in my English teaching days, I'd often get students who wanted me to teach them only"English for airports" or "English for shopping." Today is like this, but I'll be teaching them skills they can use in dozens of poses, and show them the importance of creativity and control rather than the usual overemphasis on muscular power. As the sign out front says, "Yoga for Life." (Though Andrew Sensei is right in joking, "Shouldn't it be 'Yoga for Death?'" Transcendence baby.)

I'm surprised to find that one of the attendees is a guy I met at the ashram in India two years ago. We chat awhile afterward, then Miki (who assisted me) and I bike quickly down to a different studio for a workshop on Nada, the yoga of sound. Ty Burhoe is leading it, and I know him since he did the music for Tias' DVD, plus a year ago he played tabla with Shen, who was my own teacher for a very short time. Ty's workshop is good, with a light humorous touch. For the second half, his drumming is the BGM for a vigorous Vinyasa class that I hadn't expected. I'm pretty pooped at the end. After a short break, he's joined by Sarod player Steve Oda for a mellow night of ragas. I'm too tired to sit up so I slump across a bolster, pointing my legs at the musicians, wiggling my toes in time to the music as if I'm conducting it. And drift into a minor samadhi that's all mine...

On the turntable: Chet Baker, "In Tokyo"

On the nighttable: David Chadwick, "Thank You and OK!"

On the reel table: "Round Midnight" (Tavernier, 1986)

Kumano Kōdō I (Prologue)

It's snowing when we awake. At least it's not rain. A little later we get off the train in Tenmabashi, and quickly find the stone that marks this, the true start of the Kumano Kodo. We have a lot of walking ahead of us this year. We move south down streets lined with curry shops and old Taisho buildings now empty, yet still proudly bearing the names of businesses decades gone. The street ends at a tree shrine, reaching up from asphalt. A faded wooden board tells of yet another snake legend. On the slope behind it is the birthplace of Naoki Sanjugo, whose name is now best remembered as a literary award. We find another tree shrine, this one next to where Chikamatsu is buried. We continue on, past an old school, and more buildings aging like ancient film stars, their beauty timeless but somehow anachronistic. We arrive eventually at Shitennoji temple, much bigger than expected. Here too, the structures that most dazzle are the old, unkept ones. The temple is busy on this three-day weekend. A few pre-teens are spinning the prayer wheels faster and faster, but I doubt they know what they're for. Before the temple's Southern Gate is a long stone marking the way to Kumano. There is an indentation at one end, carved out by centuries of prostrating foreheads. We pass through, and stop a few blocks away to buy a 551 butaman, famous down here. We step out into the wind again and find some relief in the bright sun atop the overpass, eating quickly with the view of Tsutenkaku towering just over there. We eat again soon after, along the counter of a nondescript Chinese place partly hidden down an alley. There are many Chinese looking houses down here, and the faces we see are broader, more Asian. On again pointing south, through neighborhoods growing smaller, yet still keeping that unique Osaka character. We enter an area that is the birthplace of (organized) divination. At Abe Jinja, a spooky woman is lurking about, near a board where ema hang. On one, someone has written a prayer about wanting a girlfriend, with a beautiful amine style drawing of his apparent type. At another shrine nearby, a woman is pressing her hands hard against a tree. The stones on the lid of a well here are shaped like Egyptian mummies. I hear what I think is chanting then realize that it is someone's ringtone. Further on still, Sumiyoshi Taisha is much bigger, and in full festival mode. We follow the sound of flutes and drums to find the last throes of a miko dance. Food stalls line the main path, behind which, a pair of yamabushi are building their goma fire. A few more are throwing mochi to the crowd. My ridiculous height advantage allows me to quickly snare one, stamped with the character for luck. Little did we suspect it would soon change for the worse. We cross the Yamato River. This is Sakai now, a sprawling cluster of suburbs. The amount of metal factories seem endless. The walk is really growing bleak now, alongside these reeking hulks. At least there is life, creation, going on inside, moreso than in the suburbs in which we weave lost. Unlike Osaka, there are no trail markers here, and we begin to spend more time looking at the map and second guessing ourselves than actual walking. The only real bright spots are the burial mounds scattered around these plastic homes. Without these, this area would have no character at all. The granddaddy of all mounds is just ahead, that of old Nintoku, dating from the early 5th century and bigger than the pyramids of Egypt. We traverse the park, watching the crows hover over the grounds. It's truly a Hitchcockian sight, as there must be hundreds of them swirling around. It's getting colder now and our enthusiasm decreases with each wrong turn. We decide to call it a day. We're not too far from home, so we hop a train. Back in the Kyo, we bike home, in snow lightly falling across the face of the moon.

Around 10a.m. the next day, we're back in Sakai again, walking into a gusty wind. Some of the crows from yesterday are making a meal of a run-over tanuki. In death it almost looks embarrassed, its entrails out for all to see. We come across the Nanshūji temple we're looking for, but can't find any apparent way in. There are no signs whatsoever. Why is Sakai so neglectful of its history? After a few wrong turns and some vague directions by unfriendly locals, we eventually find our way in. It is a massive place, of smaller subtemples enclosed by earthen walls. These, along with the unkept gardens and uneven paths give the place a mournful atmosphere, which is perfect somehow. It's like we're on the set of Rashomon. We linger a long while, our first (and only) moment of happiness this morning. We exit through crumbling gates, then along a claustrophobic Nagaya neighborhood. This time the film reference is Yamanaka Sadao. The Kōdō here, though unscripted, is straight and easier to follow. We duck into a shrine dudded up for this weekend's Seijin-no-hi festival. I start to get a bad feeling about the place when I see a food stall just in front of the well for washing hands. I'm "Gaijin da'd" by a few middle-aged men huddled around a fire, which I ignore. What I can't ignore is the rude racist woman in the office. I was about to step into an apparent public toilet when she yells, "No no no!" as if to a child, and tells me to find a coffee shop somewhere instead. After nearly 15 years here, I have developed a pretty thick skin, and am not usually quick to play the racism card. But the way she used rude Japanese to my face, then switched to the politer form when she spotted Miki, leads to an obvious conclusion. I'd had enough of Sakai, with it's bad smells, rude people, and complete lack of character. What had started out as a walk on the Kumano Kōdō has now become a faster march to get out of town. Viewed from the train to Kansai airport, I'd always considered Osaka to be one of the ugliest cities in the world. But yesterday had proven the place to be charming, and I realize now what I'd been scorning all these years was in fact Sakai. So I have nothing more to say about this town, other than it is the obvious "afterbirth of Osaka." (The Chamber of Commerce is hereafter free to use that as their tourist slogan.) Hours later, inside Ōtori's covered shopping arcade, we stop for lunch at an old coffee shop. The owner stands proudly behind the counter in his tie, while his smiling wife serves us the food merrily, despite her hunched back. The shop has an old-timey charm, and Miki proclaims her nostalgia about a dozen times. The only other customer sits at the counter, he nearly as old as time itself. We are much happier now and warm, but we have to move on. This is Izumi city, and the road has the course stamped into the concrete beneath our feet. We climb up to Hijiri Jinja, the only shrine that we'd visit this weekend that wasn't dudded up in the festival spirit. Its remote hilltop location gives fantastic views of far off Kobe and Shikoku, and the planes banking in over the Bay to land at Kansai airport. The gods up here were old, their altars lurking in the dark forest. The two koma-inu flanking the torii were old too, syllables no longer emanating from faces long worn away by the wind and rain. We hardly fared better, the gusts increasing through the day. We'd left the spiritual world behind, spending the last couple hours moving along a busy road which links the bedroom communities out here. At Kishiwada, we decided to call it a day. Through the dark sky, we looked for the telltale neon of a love hotel. I spotted a motorcycle cop at an intersection, and asked him about one. It was pretty funny, him giving directions in such hushed tones. We headed to the area he described, toward a moon huge and full and orange. A few blocks over we spotted our cop again, him now with his buddies, quickly and conspiratorially pointing us toward the hotel without their notice. Pretty funny. The hotel was three times what we wanted to pay, so with the help of a phone book, we found the only vacancy in town, at a business hotel a twenty minute bus ride further off. It's pretty hard to travel on the fly in Japan.

We'd slept long and solid. We needed that rest to fight a long cold day, the most extreme yet. Snow teases us on and off. We are quiet most of the morning, having gotten off to a lousy start due to a bus driver's misdirections. It takes us a half hour to find the road again, only after hopping multiple fences beside a small pond and between apartment buildings. I am soon tired of the suburbs, how they'd draw you in, then wear away at your sense of direction with their meandering but altogether purposeless uniformity. Soon after this, I nearly fall over in hilarity at the sight of a cheap love hotel that we would've passed had we walked a mere ten minutes further last night. The morning leads us out of the bedroom towns, into a chain of villages linked by vegetable fields and small country train platforms. Many of the homes are still hanging on from late Edo, having served as lodgings along this Kumano Kōdō. Now and again we find markers commemorating the generals who'd fallen in the siege of Osaka in the summer of 1615. Amazing to imagine the tens of thousands of troops bivouaking here, marching on Osaka castle, way back near Tenmabashi and the start of this walk -- how long ago? The day is wearing on but we haven't found a place to eat and escape the cold's reach. When we find a shrine, we'll break out the trail mix, but we didn't bring our usual warm tea, much missed on this cold day. At one shrine a few miko huddle in the dark. Out in the snow, a mom and her young son play catch. I've seen this repeated many times during this walk, and wonder at the whereabouts of the dads. It makes me think of how back in the 90's, I'd often see working age men at afternoon film matinees, laid off and hiding out from their wives by pretending to be at work. At another shrine, we see three girls in kimono, officially women now on this coming-of-age day. Behind them is a broad patch of lawn from which the stubble of beams protrudes. Centuries before this holiday, a tremendous temple once stood here, the center of life for a farm community where girls became women much earlier. The day goes on, and in my hunger and fatigue I notice little but the mountains getting heavy snow off to our left. Each step brings them closer. We finally find noodles, in a town that has traditionally housed travellers on this route. It's nice to be out of the cold finally, but we're close to the end. Just after setting out again, the sun breaks free of the clouds, which takes some of the edge off the wind. We come to farm villages now, the lanes narrower, the residents more friendly. Rinshōji stands on a hill above one. We climb to the Atago shrine atop the hill behind. Most of the village is up here, chanting along with the purple clad priests sitting before a handful of yamabushi who are preparing a goma at the center. Most of the villagers have their heads bowed as they chant, but a few eyeball me as I step from the forest. Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansai anymore. Miki and I are close now. We find a few hand-painted signs showing a route not on our map. We follow them into the forest to a spot where a famous Biwa player fell to his death, his instrument hanging from the tree out of reach. As the legend recounts it, spray from the waterfall just behind supernaturally strummed the strings for years. We carefully cross this treacherous hillside, then climb to the pass. The last kilometer is along the narrow lane of an ancient mountain village. Here, at Yamanakadani, we stop. The Kumano Kōdō has changed names many times since we left Kyoto -- Kyō Kaidō, Ōgura Kaidō, Kii Kaidō, -- but we have arrived at what feels like the real spiritual source. We'll leave the path for awhile, until August, when we'll pick it up again, to trace the perimeter of the mandala that is the Kii region, taking a few weeks to traverse its trails, before finishing at the Shrines of Ise. I hope the gods favor us.

On the turntable: The Pleasure Barons, "Live in Las Vegas"

On the nighttable: Anais Nin, "Henry and June"

On the reel table: "Drowning by Numbers" (Greenaway, 1988)

Kumano Prologue IV

It was a surprisingly warm day for December. The sky was cloudless, but the wind stayed in our faces for the entire 6 hours it took to reach Osaka. We left the overheated train at Makino, continuing southwest beside the Yodogawa. The walk took us along those thick strips of green that flank any major river in Japan. A person most often sees these spaces from a train as it passes over long iron bridges. What is missed when seen from above is that these spaces have an entire culture of their own. The dark shapes of walkers moving on the berm above us, silhouetted facelessly before the distant city skyline. Some people had cleverly erected a tennis court, using as a net one of those metal barriers which prevents cars from further entering the concrete. Others were playing baseball, having dug out bases and a pitcher's mound with their cleats. There were also a couple soccer matches, plus a rugby squad practicing in front of some university. Kids flew kites as spandex-clad adults raced by on racing bikes. A homeless man had overloaded his bicycle with boxes stacked up a couple meters, and was scratching his head trying to figure a way to get on. A lone boy kicked the ball up the grassy berm, to have it roll back down to him. There were the obligatory dog-walkers, nearly everyone of these poor pampered pooches dressed better than most children. One spastic dog zigzagged unleashed like a squirrel. A construction site broke the peace with the usual aural havoc. Many middle-aged men were fishing at the end of simple makeshift piers. But most constant of all were the hundreds of makeshift homes covered over with blue tarps. There was an entire city of homeless down here. Some of these were really impressive, with doors and windows and little gardens. One garden was massive, extending well down the river. A critic had spray painted, "No gardens!" on one of the walls, which seemed more a comment of his own programmed and uninspired soul, protesting at the creative freedom of another. This made me curious about the more physical attacks on the occupants of these riverfront "homes." One small cluster of families had about a dozen dogs, possibly as defense, possibly as food. The dogs had no clothes whatsoever.

We broke for lunch, sitting beside some wetlands hosting a vast species of waterfowl, in spite of the filthy water. The call of one type of bird sounded like the squeal of an excited prom queen. Hearing the unseasonal cry of a nightingale, I looked up to see a man blowing a bird whistle. As we sat on the concrete riverside, I found myself in an Ozu moment, looking across the water at chimneys billowing smoke above identical houses with clothes blowing from backyard lines. We continued on into this wind, into near identical scenery. It eventually grew monotonous, following the concrete line between the green. This had been an odd idea from the start. Years ago, Miki had biked this route, in a return trip from Kyoto to Osaka. She'd mentioned how dull it was. But I insisted, wanted to protect the purity of the walk, in that bizarre way that I have. The ancients bound for Kumano's shrines had ridden palanquin to the foot of Otokoyama, then boarded boats to follow the river to what is now Tenmabashi. I had insisted we do it on foot, though despite the good weather and reasonably interesting sights, a bike may have been preferable after all. Fifteen km over concrete and the feet begin to whine; over twenty, their complaints are deafening. Still, we pushed on, the both of us defiant and stubborn as always.

We passed under an old iron bridge shared by trains and pedestrians, finally arriving at a large stone marking the childhood home of the poet Buson. We followed the narrower Ogawa river south into the heart of the city. Planes bound for Itami extended their landing gear toward us as if giving an encouraging thumbs up (or down). The spectacle of the sun setting through the clouds took our minds off our feet somewhat, then the lights began to come on, their neon shapes go-go dancing across the water's surface. We arrived in full darkness at Tenmabashi, where warm coffee helped to rebut the cold, and the passing whiff of Indian curry gave a hint at what's for dinner.

On the turntable: Dave Brubeck, "Time Out'

On the nighttable: Kenji Miyazawa, "The Milky Way Railroad"

Slow down! Or read some Murakami. Or Auster

Life moves pretty fast. But if you don't slow down you won't notice...
I mentioned last week my desire to slow things down and reestablish a connection with the world around me. And I believe I've had some success, due to the fact that I've being reintroduced to Serendipity again. If you spend your days rushing from one bit of internal mental sludge to another, the wonder of her beauty will pass you by. For instance:

I'm walking an Osaka street, looking for the place where the film fest is being held. It's called Planet...something. So I walk, singing to myself that B52's song, "Planet Claire." I find the theater, right next to a athletic field called, Claire.

One of the films I saw, "Doubles" was scored by Yamashita Yosuke, who I'd seen at EC a week before.

My friend gives me a CD of Latin Music. Two songs are by Matsuda Mio, again, who I'd just seen at EC.

Meeting new people at a party, then seeing them the next morning in photos on a completely different person's blog.

Seeing two gigs a week apart and finding the drummer for both bands is the same guy.

I suppose you can say that these kinds of things aren't so unusual in the fishbowl of the Kyo, or the larger fishbowl of Japan. But don't you think that fish, with their short memories, are also prone to coincidence, as they circle the bowl again and again, going, "Whoa! Deja Vu!"

On the turntable: Colonel Claypool's Bucket of Bernie Brains, "The Catalyst - Santa Cruz, CA 11/01/04"

Friday Saturday Sunday

Last year I wrote about the Matsuage Festival we attended. We learned that there was another one closer to town in Kumogahata, so it was last week that we biked for over an hour into the mountains north of the Kyo, into the fading light of day. On rubber legs we peddled, often wondering if we'd missed the village, until we saw a group of men, the older ones dressed as firemen, the younger ones in yukata. Our already weary calves nearly gave as we climbed the steep stone steps of Kounji to find....4 people. The temple was small, about the size of my old house up in the Nog. We sat awhile in the engawa, dangling our legs into the garden and looking up at the Moon swelling toward its full shape. Suddenly it hit me how much I miss the 'Nog. Not my life there so much as the size and the speed and the ease with which people smile and share. I'd been in the Kyo a year (give or take a few trips away) and found the kindness in the locals quite frosty. I didn't have moments like this one anymore, just sitting and sipping tea and talking to strangers. But strangers often don't stay strangers long and just before 8 o'clock, their numbers increased to a couple dozen, perhaps the whole village. Absent were the young men, now climbing the hillside beyond to set the festival fires alight. Miki and I were apparently the only outsiders here, the locals impressed that we'd biked all the way up from Kyoto for their tiny festival. The two of us sat in suspense of what would happen, not a Wicker Man-type suspense , but the delightful suspense of spending time with distant relatives who you don't know well , and one of them about to pull a coin or something from your ear. And just after eight, there was a glow from the trees across the valley, and a flaming kanji character was raised. Unlike Hanase's matsuage, this was more like the Kyo's okuribi, the difference being that no one knew what this year's kanji would be. And it was... 寸. Sun? None of the locals knew why, and as Miki and I later headed down the steep steps we were both silent in trying to find the answer to this koan. But our mindfulness tuned once again into present matters on the ride home, down a looooong descent on a road covered by shadows. On the especially dark bits we slowed way down, having no idea what the road surface was like, or whether stones lay there. Twice we were started by the movement of something huge: a big animal splashed loudly in the river in one place, and a few kilometers later something even bigger tore down the hillside at us. The Wicker Man, after all?


After a good nights sleep we went down to Osaka for the Kansai International Film Festival. This was a collection of works by film makers who'd spent some time in Japan. Miki I sat through four films, two by Darryl Knickrehm, the festival's organizer. One of these was a brief history of Kansai Time Out magazine. The second film I had been wanting to see for almost a decade, since the about time my son was born. "Doubles" by Regge Life was a fascinating documentary about children of mixed Japanese and American ancestry. A bonus to today's screening was an impromptu short talk by an elderly man who had been in the film and just happened to be in the audience. This former resident of Manzanar was now living in a Kyoto temple as a monk. His story could be a film of its own.
The last film we saw was Bondi Tsunami, which I had missed in the States and so was happy to see for free here. Boy, was I happy to have paid nothing. This film was billed as a "road/surf" movie but came across as a 90 minute music video (albeit for smokin' good music.) It had no real story to speak of, but what little there was could've been told in 5 minutes instead of the 1 1/2 hours (of my life) it took to unfold. It tried to land this big profound spiritual message but instead fell miserably into the trough of cliche. (Ahem.) Unfortunately this was actually one of the highlights, these recycled quotes from Dogen or Aldous Huxley, yet they had no thread or concise message. Another high point was the clever camerawork, but it took sometimes strayed into the "Hey! Check out what I can do in the editing room!" dangerzone. Afterward, Miki was nauseous from the film's 6,599,887 cuts. Nothing that some Osaka street vendor curry and ice cream couldn't fix.

Sunday, some Osaka friends came up to visit, and we all went to Maruyama Park for a music festival. There we spent a mellow day listening to an unbelievable variety of musical styles, browsing the mini-flea market (strangely, each stall hawking only a couple dozen things), and eating tasty food. There were even two women offering Thai massage. The crowd was somewhat small, maybe a few more than those who saw Spinal Tap play their first jazz fest. But the music was great. It was a delight to hear "Caravan", Ellington's jazz classic inspired by North African nomads, played on an oud. It was also the first time I've seen Seiichi, my friend and local hero, play straight percussion away from his Steel Drum Orchestra. (One of the funnest shows I've seen and playing again in Kyoto this Tuesday, September 4. Mail me if interested.) He was backing up Tanikawa Kensaku, son of famous poet Tanikawa Shuntaro. In addition to all the great music, there were the usual surreal and bizarre scenes which reaffirm my opinion that drugs aren't necessary here in Japan. (Children's TV is trippy enough.) For instance: a 40-something emcee wearing a dress made of colored newspaper adverts and giggling alot. Two guys in superhero drag, dancing and 'fighting' in front of the stage. An elderly German man in lederhosen singing one of his country's children's songs to the accompaniment of young Japanese musicians on ukuleles. Japan's best known 'saw' player. Plus Dylan's "I Shall Be Released" played on a thumb piano. Crazy, man. (What is the sound of two fingers snapping?)
Looking forward to see what they come up with next year.


On the turntable: Les Claypool, "Highball with the Devil"
On the nighttable: Mark Haddon, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time"

Getting in Tune

Spending a slow afternoon in the backstreets of Osaka proved a change from where I usually pass my slow afternoons, in the foothills of Kyoto. I couldn't help but think of energy and how it moves. On the surface, the natural world seems to move so slowly, yet the energy is so fertile, so ready to burst. Cities by contrast appear to really move, yet the energy lies stagnant, dying a quick death amidst all the tar and concrete.


On the turntable: Red House Painters, "Old Ramon"

He Gone, Me So Gone

Wednesday was the Vernal Equinox, O-Higan in Japan, a day when people traditionally go visit the family grave. But Miki and I choose to look instead to the future and make us some miso. We went deep into Osaka to the home of Yayoi and Seiichi, she being a leather artist (not what you're thinking), he being one of Kansai's best percussionists and the leader of Rustic Pans. (They played in Kyoto last weekend, much to the delight of my happy feet. Where were you?) Their home is an interesting mix of their stylistic interests, Santa Fe adobe punctuated by driftwood collected on the beaches of Kochi. There were a few others present, creative-types. After the preliminary toast with sake, we set down to business. Making miso is relatively simple. We first had to steam soybeans down to a certain softness, which Yayoi seemed to know almost by sight. Then one of us would crush the beans in a large stone pestle with a huge wooden mallet. These are the same impliments used in making mochi, but rather than a carnivel strongman swing from the shoulder, hands are placed on both ends to do the crushing. After a few minutes, someone else would follow with the spatula-like shamoji, to scrape the smashed beans toward the middle. Inevitably, a dance would ensue where the scraper would follow the crusher around the stone bowl, mocking the dances of summertime Obon. This action would eventually create a paste, which would be mixed by hand with shiokirikoji (salt and some kind of mold) then thrown into large clay jars, their varied sizes creating some interesting pitches and tones. Miki had the best technique, literally slamming these fistsful of miso down like an endzone football spike, hair and arms flailing wildly. The whole process takes about ten minutes, compared to the thirty minutes of sitting around waiting for the beans to steam. Even with three propane burners going, it still took about 10 hours. This of course leaves much time for drinking. As is typical for this country, there was a natural division by gender, the women chatting in the kitchen and making lunch, the men out front, talking less and drinking more. Awamori from Okinawa eventually made an appearance, but I begged off, still nursing a mental hangover of four years ago on Miyako. ( I think everyone has their most memorable hangover. Whew!) It was a beautiful day and almost a shame to be inside, but the house had sliding front doors which opened onto a wooden deck like in the Old West. On this day of equal dark and light, we made the most of this indoor-outdoor effect, sitting in the narrow street in our low camp chairs, adjusting our position occasionally in order to stay in the constantly shifting sun. Late in the day, Miki and I took a walk along a dirty river lined by a low concrete wall decorated with children's art. Large planes, making their final approach to Itami, opened their landing gear directly over us. The sun eventually followed them west, filling the street with shadow. But by now the work was done, our miso made. Now all we have to do is set it in a cool dark place for a year(!) while it rots, er, ferments. A nice reminder of how time used to move...


On the turntable: Maryam Mursal, "The Journey"
On the nighttable: Ryokan, "Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf"

Japan's four seasons. Now daily!

Earlier this month I mentioned Hide-san, who recently published a children's book on Orcas. He's also working on a photo project on the cats who live in Osaka's Nagai-koen. It's amazing how they recognize him from far off, and come running for a back rub in exchange for a good pose. Besides the camera, he also carries a bottle of eye drops to ease the rampant conjunctivitis common to strays.

As we walked, we were shocked to see a sakura tree in bloom, during these waning days of December. OK, I'm really scared now.

Even more so when the snow began...


On the turntable: UNKLE, "Never Never Land"
On the nighttable: Gary Snyder, "Passage Through India"

Osaka underground

"Do you know all the words in English?'
I was in the Indian Consulate to pick up my visa. There was a woman there, vacuuming the carpet in the lobby. This was how she started the conversation.
'Um, no. I probably know less than half."
She wrinkled her nose and walked into the hall. I too went out, heading to the elevators. When I got on, she was already there.
She didn't look Indian per-se, and I was sure she wasn't Japanese. "Where are you from?" I asked.
"Tibet'
"Ah--"
On the first floor she told me, "I have to the hoist the flag every morning and now I have to... What's the opposite word of hoist?"
"Take down?" Slight uncertainty in my intonation.
"Oh. That's easy. Do you know the word "Uber?"
"Yeah, it means, like, super. But it's German"
"What about tet-a-tet? "
"That's French. It means face to face."
"And gesundheit?"
"That's German. It means--"
"Bless you," we say in harmony.
She told me, "There was an American guy yesterday who didn't know most of these words."
"I read alot I guess."
She moved outside toward the Indian flag hanging near the corner of the building. "It was nice talking to you today. I'm Padmo."
"Ted. Good talking to you Padmo." I bring my hands to namaste, and move along the sidewalk.

My steps take me to the other end of the Indian subcontinent to a small Sri Lankan restaurant. I'd found it last Friday before the Kodo show. The owner, knowing I teach yoga in the Kyo, was surprised to see me again . He had made me a veggie curry without my asking, and seemed a little amused when I ordered beer. I ate to the songs of Billie Holliday on the speakers. He asked me a little about my visit to his country two years ago. He told me that it wasn't very safe now.

I have to hurry a little to make it back to the Kyo on time for my taiko lesson. The subway isn't crowded yet. I have to stand but I have room to read. When I hit Umeda, I pick up the pace, turning it into mindfulness training by attempting to walk in straight lines without yielding or changing my pace. At one point I decide to look past the backs of the people immediately in front of me and focus instead on the middle distance. After a few seconds of this, something feels strange. I assume it's because this isn't the usual way that one negotiates crowds, and that my eyes are rebelling. Then I realize where I am. A decade ago, CLo and I came to this place, in the depths of the subway terminal. It is essentially a huge open space, broken up by tall, white, almost Roman pillars. In our universe, there are an infinite number of points and an infinite number of lines intersecting them. What had so amazed CLo and I was that people seemed to be moving along every possible line of motion. It is a sight so seemingly impossible that it brought out laughter, then as now. A visual koan. So despite the chances of my being late, I stop and watch and marvel. It isn't everyday that the universe takes off her clothes.



On the turntable: Poe, "Haunted"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman"

Architectural Dance Steps

I've mentioned in these pages that I was worried about the increase in posts about music. The fear lies in not knowing the proper steps while "dancing about architecture," a famous quip that I'd attribute to Dorothy Parker, though not without conjecture. Yet I also seem to recall Goethe's claim that architecture is frozen music, so there you go. Whatever the case, I can't write about last weekend without mentioning music.

Friday night I was in Osaka, to catch Kodo's annual year end show there. Enjoyable as always. It started out with clackers which resonated loudly thru my head to the point that the sound cleared out my sinuses. Much welcome relief after days of rain. Marcin and I sat omnipotently up in the balcony, our wisecracks drawing frightening-close comparisons with the two old codgers from the Muppet show. Many of the musical pieces tread familiar ground, though it was nice to see Yoshikazu play Odaiko again. After his long solo, as he knelt in his own sweat, back heaving, I imagined him thinking, "I'm getting too old for this shit."
Afterward, a few of us went backstage to say our hellos, then moved on to some trendy spot for a New Year's party. Later, our mad dash for trains was epic, missing the last Keihan train by five minutes, the last Hankyu by one, me humming "Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown" until stepping aboard a warm JR train filled with drunks.

Saturday, MatsuMiki and I went to visit Keith and Masumi at their new digs in rural Kyoto. Local Legend Tim was in town for the party, which included a few of the local housewives and their kids. After dinner, we started to play some acoustic versions of Keith's songs. Although I've taken loads of drumming workshops this year, I haven't played in front of an audience since June, and was looking forward to connecting musically with my friends. But before things began to really cook, one of the kids fell down, drawing blood. Game over, man.

Sunday I spent drumming, three hours on Miyake, three on Yatai. Neither of these pieces are difficult musically, but require serious demands physically, particularly the calves, shoulders, and abs.. (My arms are still heavy as I write this post.) After the workshop, I rushed over to KyoDai's Seibu Kodo for Big Frog Day. I've long wanted to see this place, the center of late '60s student riots and still beyond University control. (Back in Isla Vista, I had been equally happy to see radical bands like Public Enemy, Disposable Heroes, and Rage Against the Machine play in the former Bank of America building torched during anti-war protests in 1970.) Passing thru a torii arch painted psychedelic colors, into an open lot now in full hippie vibe. I'm sure most of the usual Kyoto longhairs were here, washing down fry bread with Chai, or buying new clothing made of hemp. Many more were inside, watching Nami-san going thru his set. I've seen Nami's gigs a dozen times and have played percussion for him occasionally. (Even Ken-chan banged away on tin cups at one show.) He seems to follow some kind of hippie underground railway, playing each town with a collective of local musicians like myself. But this was the first time I'd seen him play fully fleshed out with a large band, including a young drummer playing with what I initially thought were rather unimaginative fills. But the main difference is that he was up there and I wasn't. Another quick impression was that the young girl singing backup sounded a lot better than Isako and her Yoko Ono-esque whelps and yawps. I assumed that these backup musicians were some KyoDai students. Imagine my shock when they later came out alone to play the second set. It had been Big Frog all along. Rather than Nami opening for them, they had chosen to play together. On their own tunes, they were really incredible, no real surprise considering that they're essentially the Phish of Japan. Throughout the entire show, a couple of artists were creating their visions, spray-painting white designs on clear plastic sheets hanging behind the stage. It was like watching spiders at work. Meanwhile, the band was cranking thru some really ripping songs, and despite my extreme fatigue I still found the energy to dance, far in the back with the drunks and other casualties. A couple nice hippie touches to the show were a dog wandering the stage and yawning, plus Nami-san missing his cue to rejoin the band. He wandered onstage midsong, played a few chords before putting down his guitar, made some bizarre hand gestures, then wandered off again. (Not unlike the dog, really.) Around this point I noticed Isako, having just arrived late from a long drive down from Tottori. When it was over, we both went backstage. I really felt guilty about initially underrating the band's drummer since he turned out to be an extremely friendly and nice guy. The gang seemed to be settling in with their respective substances and I didn't want to intrude, so after a short visit with Nami, I headed back out to the friendly freak scene outside. I'm sure there were some other friends around, but I was too tired to dive in. Nor did I want to linger too long on the fringe, so I created space by heading home to a Herzog DVD and his own unique take on lovable outsiders.



On the turntable: Adjabel, "Acoustic Revolution"
On the nighttable: Kerouac, Saijo, Welch, "Trip Trap"