All Together...Now

The mustachioed man puffs out cigarette smoke like a steam locomotive, the stripes of the crosswalk serving as railroad ties.  I sit before him, on the other side of the glass, in a hip little place I found as I walked through Jingu-mae.  I had three hours to kill, so it had been a day spent moving slow, quite a luxury in a city of Tokyo's size, particularly as it was a weekday. 

From this window of San Francisco Peaks,  I spy berets and beards,  Van Dykes and VW Beetles.  A T-shirt bearing the words, "United Arrows" reminds me for a moment of the PM, and I remind myself that sloganeering generally indicates a lack of ideas.  There's more depth in the pop song coming through the speakers.  Despite that, there's definitely an increase in men in uniforms these days.  And I do hope that some of these hipsters I see passing by notice it too.     

I sip IPA from a plastic glass, which rests soundly on a denim coaster perfectly squared.  There are no other customers in here, so the waitress throws a glance every so often as she moves a cloth over metal utensils.  Waitstaff in Japan certainly polish a lot of silverware.  Every sip of my beer adds another ring to the smooth inner curve of the glass, and before long it begins to look like the banded atmosphere of Jupiter. 

Before ordering another pint, I climb the stairs to the toilet.  Along the wall are posters of San Francisco in its hippie heyday, one in particular of a crowd taken from the stage of some outdoor concert.  Psychedelic lettering above their shaggy heads reads, "All Together...Now."   And I'm together with them, the owners downstairs, with the whole chilled out vibe here.  They certainly have created a nice space.  But what they may not realize is that San Francisco Peaks is the name of a mountain range outside Flagstaff.  Unless of course it's an acid reference.  San Francisco peaking.  All together.  Now.

Out on the street, a guy in a beanie bobs his head deferently as he speaks with a tall man in a leather jacket and black pork pie hat.  I imagine them to be a struggling musician talking to a famous record producer, in a casual meeting here on the street.  In Japan, even the hipsters bow...



On the turntable:  Beck, "Mellow Gold"
On the nighttable: "The Ise Stories"

Ueno in the Rain

It started with an Akamon curry in the rain.  Or out of the rain is more honest, sitting at a counter, my back to the brick wall that once served as a support for the eponymous red gate under which tens of thousands of students aspire to walk.  

I had walked past this gate, and the university it led to, a few weeks before, as the Nakasendo led me past Tokyo University in frighteningly similar weather.  The rain this time too is typhoon driven, and I walk through it away from my nearby ryokan, for my aforementioned curry, then further on toward the pond that serves as the heart of the school, with kiai shouts coming from the kyūdō dōjō above.  The steps down are slippery with wet.  

Beyond the campus, I walk around yet another body of water, nearly choked with lotus plants.  I stop at one point at the tall apartment building that stands as a monument to the fact that Donald Richie is no longer there.   

In one corner I stop at the Shitamachi museum that honors the period that Richie knew best.  The exhibits bring life to the post-war years.  On the first floor is a reproduction of an alley lined with houses, opened up like doll houses. Hanging from the windows of one are dried orange peels strung to keep the mozzies away.  Upstairs, a ground of octogenarians merrily play with the toys of their childhood.  And on a screen behind them, Ueno rises from the ashes of war.

The narrow corridors of Ameyoko-cho was one of the first things to rise, and it could be argued that it was the entrepreneurs of this one-time black market that birthed the eventual Economic Miracle and subsequent Bubble Years.  Today it is somewhat tarted up to resemble more a marketplace of any claustrophobic Asian city, complete with touts of a dozen ethnicities.

Passing through Ueno Station, I notice that there's an exhibition of feudal period Kyoto art, but I don't feel the need to go any further back in time.  Instead, I go gaze awhile at Saigo Takamori and his enormous dog.  Nearby, a half dozen homeless men are sitting beneath the overhanging lip of the public toilets, keeping out of the drizzle.  I'm amused to see that they're all reading books.  

In a similar fashion, Binzuru sits under the eves of the great temple here, keeping dry.  His red wooden belly has been rubbed white from the passing hands of those ailing.  A reminder of the high prevalence of stomach cancer here?  Or perhaps just the anxieties of living in our age, which knot my own stomach on occasion, disturbing sleep.   

Despite the light rain, the buskers hold their usual formation along the promenade.  A Peruvian pipe band, Lon Cheney's Phantom on stilts.  The music stays with me until the Toshogu shrine, then fades as I continue down the hill.  

Passing the galleries and bookstores, I find music again within the walls of an old-timey kissaten, and warm myself with a cup.  The shop has a Showa feel, and a French name, Ronault.  As a I sip, as I listen, the typhoon brings with it a premature darkness.


On the turntable:  The Avett Brothers, "Live, Volume 3" 

Nakasendo solo XV

I was conscious of the scent of earth on my trousers, a scent filling the subway car on which I rode.  The previous day, I had been helping Kevin and the folks at One Life Japan harvest their rice up in a remote corner of Nagano prefecture.  As they don't use chemicals or machines, this involved kneeling directly in the muddy paddy, sickle in hand.  And now as I rode deep beneath the busy streets of Tokyo, I tried to convince myself that the other riders would find this smell comforting, and remind them perhaps of their roots in the soil.  I sat there in the stuffy and uncomfortable subway car, whose heat was on high despite what was going on outside. Well, I suppose it was October.

It exacerbated the grumpiness I was feeling.  I was frustrated at Toyko being built to a scale other than human, a scale that forces you to walk nearly a full kilometer through underground tunnels to get to your train.  (This feeling would be developed further in viewing a map of the city in 2020 with all the proposed islands to be built for the upcoming Olympics, and even more so when looking down from the absurdly high SkyTree.)   It had become apparent last night.  After two full days in the laconic pace of the countryside, I'd noticed how quickly my pace propelled me forward, as I marched in time to the beat of the urban warriors through Tokyo Station.   I also noticed the masks on the faces that I walked amongst, and the fact that my own face had grown a similarly hard exoskeleton of an expression.

I rejoined the Nakasendo above Motohasunuma Station, stepping from the brick subway gate and into the rain.  A typhoon was swirling past the city just offshore, and Tokyo was getting a real pasting.  I had been lucky with weather throughout the walk, so didn't really mind doing this last bit through the city in less than perfect conditions, striding across the puddles reflecting neon.

And I really only had a couple of hours left to walk.  Thus I passed the morning reading the signs above the shops lining both sides of the road.  Through Itabashi, the signs changed with each street that the Nakasendo crossed.  Butchers, bookshops, and barbers, the latter accompanied by the scent of hair tonic.  As moved into Sugamo, I thought how much I like walking these older parts of Tokyo, with their unpretentious old shopping arcades.  A far cry from the glitz of the western side of town.

Near Taishō University, my attention was pulled to the Ōdai Sazae-do, a strange pagada whose multi-levels spiralled up to resemble the mollusk after which it is named.  Apparently there is one up in Aizu made of wood, but this one was all ferroconcrete.  At its base, the visitor is greeted by an ancient wooden statue of Kannon that dates from the Heian period, but at the top is another statue of similar size, all gaudy and flashy.  The climb up the steps to reach it should've been a hint of what was to come, walking through walls painted a soft blue, to a soundtrack of songbirds.  Coming down the other side all was red.  I wonder what this signified, as I descended to the base and profane world below.  It was where I felt I belonged as the mist continued to slowly cleanse the dirt from my pant legs. 

The Nakasendo through Sugamo was lined by lampposts that bore small photos of the area's attractions.  I looked in vain however to any mention of the prison that held the war criminals or the hangmans's scaffolds.  Its main attraction appeared to be the Jizo temple with its throng of older woman busy waving incense smoke over their heads, or wiping water from the body of a small Kannon statue that stood at one corner of the grounds.

I rejoined Route 17 just beyond here, and followed its ever narrowing length to the Red Gate of Tōdai.  The tree-lined grounds looked inviting, but I chose to move along, as the rain grew more and more sincere.  I was quite soaked by now,  my enthusiasm washing away.  But I carried on, knowing I had less than an hour to go. 

And so came Kanda, revealing neither fields, nor gods. Upon arrival, I had in theory, already finished the length of the Nakasendo, having walked the last two kilometers a half dozen times while leading tours.  But tradition spoke louder than rain, and I retraced my steps along this last kilometer, arriving once more at the replica of the metal sign from which distances on Japan's five great highways are measured. 

And with these last final steps, I put the 537 km of the Nakasendo behind me.


On the turntable:  Jerry Garcia, "Garcia Plays Dylan"
On the nighttable:  Murasaki Shikibu, "The Tale of Genji (Seidensticker)"

Nippon Extremities: Fuji-san

Recently I have been going through some of my old notebooks, dating back some twenty years Before Blog.  Naive and poorly written as they are, some pieces deserve to be seen by more than my own single pair of eyes.  So it is, the birth of the Archives Series...


August 1995

In Kokura, my taxi driver was an idiot.  He couldn't find the ferry terminal, then later tried to take me to the Osaka-bound, then Kobe-bound boats, not convinced by my argument that I could read the damn kanji.  Thus flustered, I staked out a place on board my ship, then went outside to watch the loading of cars, and the huge earth crawlers pushing logs around the harbor area.  As we pulled out, flying fish played in the wake of our bow, and dolphins sounded nearby, their bodies glistening a funky brown and white.

Two mornings later, I rose before the sun and disembarked from my ship as it arrived in Tokyo.  It is the nature of ferries of course, to spawn automobiles in great numbers, so I stood a short ways down from the harbor and quickly caught a ride from a guy going to Yokohama for camping.  As the sun came up, the rain came down, and shortly after we crossed the Rainbow Bridge, it started to pour.  The early morning streets were mostly devoid of traffic, but there was a single jack-knifed tractor-trailor which dangled precariously from the bridge, its tires spinning in blue smoke as the driver pumped the accelerator, a puzzled expression on his face.

I quickly stowed my pack at Shinagawa, then headed up to Shinjuku to climb aboard a train jammed with hikers. I sat on my daypack amidst a forest of legs and read from Wallace Stegner's Big Rock Candy Mountain.  Later, I rode a smaller train filled with genki high school girls rebelliously wearing make-up.  We threaded our way through villages laid beneath mountains, their peaks obscured by clouds.     

At Fuji Yoshida, I hopped out and went to the nearest market to load up on food.  I walked up a steep hill through the town to a grove of trees and sat on the roots of one to eat my breakfast, all the while brushing away ants the size of raisins.  I passed through the forest to Sengen Jinja, the main shrine dedicated to Konohanasakuya Hime, the goddess of the mountain, a deity so jealous that in older times women were only allowed to climb the mountain once every 80 years.  Now, a bit more relaxed, the goddess listened to my prayers for a painless climb.  At ten a.m.,  I set off.

A sign said that I had 17 kilometers to the top, and I wanted to pace myself, hoping not to arrive too early, then have to wait through the frigid night for sunrise.  So I strolled along through the quiet forests until a highway pulled up on my left, escorting me up up up, past a gang of roaring motorcycles and a procession of beginner drivers on a learning excursion.  I whistled and I sang, my only concern being the corpses of snakes littering the road.  The goddess appears to hate them more than women these days.   

After an hour or so, a greater fear took hold of me, that this road I'd been moving along as not the correct route.  It's a common feeling in Japan, a place devoid of street names, location signs, or the ability to give good directions. But then a hut bore an arrow telling me that I was still on the right track.  The trail here cut sharply and for the first time in days, I was able to sample my nature without the throb of some type of engine.  The woods were quiet, devoid of visible wildlife besides mosquitos, but I relished the silence and the lack of automobile exhaust.  Here and there I'd pass other hikers, pondering the quality of their day with a "Konnichiwa?"  Eventually the trail ceased meandering and cut straight uphill through a gorge seemingly cut deep by water or lava.   I finally realized that what had done the carving was centuries of feet.  The earth at the bottom was darker than on the sides was devoid of all vegetation.  Rocks lay scattered here and there, and although none were bigger than my head, each was ample enough for sitting upon.  

Occasionally, the trail would level off and the ruins of an old shrine would appear from amidst the shrubs.  I was surprised to see these, for usually shrines are as cared for as they are revered.  But the familiar orange color was long gone, and the grey boards were about to be lost to the encroaching vines and weeds.  The kami of the forest were reclaiming what was theirs.       

Eventually, I climbed around a small bend and came upon the Fifth Station, or at least a building announcing it as such.  A young boy and girl sat cuddling off to one side and I felt somewhat obtrusive as I stood observing the valley out of which I'd just climbed.  I scrambled up a steep embankment, then followed a road to a parking lot, next to which was a small mountain hut.  This, the true Fifth Station, was the halfway point up Fuji.  Most climbers take a bus and start their climb from here, but I had wanted to climb in the true spirit of pilgrimage by following the ancient route from Sengen Jinja.  Besides, to me, climbing half a mountain is like watching half a movie.  

Sitting around a table was a gang of young guys with walkie-talkies.   The hut itself was really shabby and appeared moreso because it was set against the drab greys of the earth and sky.  The only color came from the clothes of the people criss-crossing the mountain's face on switchbacks high above.  The drabness of the landscape seemed post-apocalyptic and brought the memory of Scott Fitzgerald's Long Island landscape watched over by a pair of great eyes. From the darkness of the hut hobbled an old woman straight from Kobo Abe's Woman of the Dunes, bringing the literary references back to Asia.  I asked her if she'd refill my water bottle, and she agreed, and upon her return asked for 500 yen.  At first, I'd thought that she was joking, but then I reluctantly paid up, victim to an altitude sickness brought on by a pricing system that rose with the mountain.

Most people seemed to prefer a long system of switchbacks to my right, but on the opposite side of the hut was a narrow trail that followed the slope by going straight.  I scrambled up amidst the last vegetation I'd see on the mountain.  This eventually dropped me onto the wider switchback system, already filled with dozens of people.  The climb began to get somewhat routine, a laborious trudge over loose volvanic rock alongside hiking parties ranging between two and fifty.  Often the trail would shoot straight up over craggy rock, which was surprisingly fast and a refreshing change for the legs in using different muscles.  Every half kilometer or so was a mountain hut, each with dozens of people getting their walking sticks stamped or paying for food set at six times the usual value.  I was incredulous at the number of smokers at this altitude, but worse still was the bog of eternal stench that was the port-a-johns.  

The climb was very tedious and devoid of any flora and fauna to distract me from the screaming in my legs.  I was well inside the cloud layer now, with the temperature dropping dramatically.  In the forest below, I had hiked shirtless, yet despite the humidity, wasn't glazed with sweat.  But now, high up the mountain, my legs were beginning to cramp from the cold, and a sweater had joined the T-shirt on my torso.

At some point, I met up with some young American college students, who helped to break the monotony.  One guy was wearing a "Jesus Lizard" shirt, so I assumed these supposed neo-bohemes could fill me in on what I'd been missing on the homefront, musically speaking.  But sadly, their knowledge of music, books, and films, extended little past my own, so I suppose I'm not as out of touch as I'd thought.

During the next hour that we talked, I had slackened my pace a bit, so I decided to say farewell and speed up.  It was starting to get really cold, forcing a stop in order to zip on my pant legs.  Stepping back on the trail, I was feeling really fatigued.  I'd been going nearly six hours now -- all uphill.  The final Eighth Stage, the Hashimoto Hotel, loomed above, but each subsequent switchback seemed to take me no closer.  I was dragging myself uphill, and finally hit a steep rocky part that rose to the hotel's front.  For a minute, I considered pushing on for the final hour to the top, then descending to the mountain's base before sunset, in order to meet my friend Jordan (who'd climbed the day before) at his hostel in Numazu.  But the proper way to climb Fuji is to be at the summit for sunrise, so I wearily checked-in and sat by the fire pit.  They offered my dinner, but my tired brain didn't register that they were going to serve me at that moment, and the last thing that I wanted was to eat hot curry.  I must have picked slowly through my meal because the young woman next to me asked if I didn't like the taste.  We chatted awhile, and when I told her that I lived in Tottori prefecture, the young guy across from his said that he did too.  

The curry's spiciness triggered some reaction down below, so I excused myself and half stumbled outside to the toilet.  This outhouse was a mere hole cut through the floor and as I've already mentioned, the smell, a sweet mixture of feces and bleach, was toxic.  Between the agony of squatting on rubbery legs, the altitude, and the stench, I had to put my hands on the opposite walls to keep from pitching over.  

Once finished, I was led upstairs to the sleeping area, a long room containing only two bunk beds.  Each of the four bunks extended the length of the hut, and could sleep maybe 30 or 40 people.  There were heavy blankets, layered over the top of each other, but with the shared body heat, you hardly needed them.  I was lucky to be placed at the end, next to the wall, so I could kick out out a besocked foot, and was saved the discomfort of being wedged between two strangers.  However, the guy next to me snored and tossed enough for three.  My sleep, if any, was restless, and I too probably turned over every 15 minutes, like a pig on a spit.  Having be up since before 4:00, I was dead tired but couldn't sleep, my body still rolling with the ship I'd been on the past two nights.  Luckily, no one was allowed to smoke inside, but inevitably, some inconsiderate dolt would stand in the doorway and smoke, freezing all who slept on this end of the room.  At over 3000 meters, only shallow breathing was possible, so the cigarette smoke mixed with the smell of burning plastic somewhere beyond was agonizing.  I twice left my bunk at 7:30 and 10:30, and was amazed at the number of people moving beyond the doors.  At 2 a.m., the majority of the people left the warmth of the hut, to arrive at the top two hours before sunrise.  Let 'em freeze, I thought, as I turned over grumpily yet again.  

At 3:00, I left, my body stiff from having been prone for the last 10 1/2 hours.  I ate the remainder of my food, then joined the rest of the brainless robots on our slow march up the mountain.  (Too bad there wasn't a cliff at the top.)  It was easy to tell who had slept, for they bounded up easily.  The rest moved like centenarians, leaning too heavily on their staffs, which would slip on the shale and then hit other people in the feet or shins.  Or they'd unknowingly place them at odd angles that would trip any who tried to step past.  Worse still were the headlamps everyone seemed to be wearing, and when anyone turned their heads, all in the vicinity would be temporarily blinded.  

The lines of people moved slowly, like the longest amusement park queue in the world.  Above me, the lights zigzagged to the top.  Near the summit was a small shrine, and below this,  people stopped moving altogether.  The full moon sat behind the crest, and the clouds to the east were beginning to glow.  An Englishman standing nearby muttered irritably, "Let's move, ya fuckin' arseholes."  So I did just that, sticking to the inside of the trail, and cutting between switchbacks.  Leaving the masses behind, I reached the top, only to find it more crowded than down below.  I really should have expected this, on the Saturday night of the Obon Holiday.   (I heard later that there had been 10,000 people on the mountain that night.)  The food stalls at the top continued to gouge, gouge, gouge, and inside the shrine, three priests huddled around a tea kettle.

I weaved through the crowd to a dark building.  Stepping over a railing posted with a sign forbidding just that, I climbed up a small rise, just as the sun popped its head above the cloud line.  The crowd cheered and many bowed.  Others yelled, "Banzai!"  The reek of burnt plastic overpowered all, even the cold.  In the growing light, I realized that I was standing atop what must've been an entire summer's worth of garbage.

Realizing the cloud layer wasn't going to burn off anytime soon, I moved along the crater rim.   Finally, I limped up the incredibly steep final ascent to the true summit.  From here, I looked into Fuji's crater, reminiscent of one of Kurosawa's worst "Dreams."

At exactly 6 a.m., I started down.  The Gotemba trail began with some steep switchbacks, then after about a kilometer, a single hut appeared.  A short distance beyond was a small rise, atop which was a little silhouette of a man, standing amidst a pile of shiny metallic objects. The whole scene begs for the overused cliche of 'post-apocalyptic,' but no other word captures the mental image of this man on guard on his sentry post.  

Beyond this, the trail disappeared altogether, and so began a 5 1/2 kilometer descent straight down the side of the mountain.  This was by far the highlight of the whole thing.  I reached incredible speeds, nearing that of a car at times.  Now and then I'd literally be running completely out of control for minutes at a time, creating terrific slides as I'd skid to a stop in order to dump back ash from my shoes.  (Not all slides were as 'terrific.'  In 1980, twelve people were killed when they collectively started an entire section of the mountain to move, which subsequently buried them.)  It was awesome to run through the clouds alongside a single cord that marked the 'trail.'  Off to the side I could see other figures sprinting down through this wasteland, leaving a kilometer long dust tail in their wake.  Eventually one of these figures merged trajectories with mine, and we ran together awhile laughing with hysteria and adrenaline.  He was surprisingly, another foreigner, posted at an army base nearby, and in incredibly good shape judging from the speeds he was getting in his full pack.  Twice he dropped things, and I'd grab them as I swooped by.  When I stopped again to empty my shoes, he yelled "See you at the bottom!" and disappeared into the dust.

Near the bottom, the slope leveled somewhat and vegetation once again began to appear.  It was somewhat strange to see trees rising from black ash.  Off to my right, a river bed lay dark and dead. 
At the Fifth Station, I found that I had an hour's wait for the bus, so as I wandered over to the parking lot hoping to find my old Army buddy.  Predictably, he gave me a lift to the train station, and thirty minutes later I was on a train bound for my rendezvous with Jordan.

Arriving in Numazu two hours early, I disembarked looking like a ghost, covered as I was with dust.  Disheveled, exhausted, and undoubtedly reeking of all sorts of nastiness, I wandered around the small station of this onsen town, looking at maps and hoping to find a place where I could have a bath.  Finally, I asked a cab driver, who looked at me like I'd just come back from a jog on Saturn's rings.  So I turned and sat on a bench and opened my Stegner, feeling right at home with my homeless benchmates due to my appearance.  

And then Jordan finally arrived, beginning our journey down the Izu peninsula, on what would ultimately be a ceaseless 12-hour day of boats, trains, and buses...


On the turntable:  The Sacred Shakers, "The Sacred Shakers"
On the nighttable:  Dazai Osamu,  "Return to Tsuruga"

  

I am Irony Man

I'm a huge fan of irony. I've never demonstrated irony so perfectly as on that April afternoon in 2009 when I sat for an hour in front of Akihabara Station, reading an actual book.


On the turntable: LCD Soundsystem, "LCD Soundsystem"

Curvet Over Ground and Nikko

I arrived in Akihabara around lunch time, too early for my meet with Zach. I sat in the sun in front of the station for awhile, my mind pulled back and forth from William Weston's descriptions of 19th century Japanese Alps, to the fascinating characters of 21st Century Tokyo. Many of the people were the stereotyped Akiba characters I'd expected. Strangely, nearly all the women I saw had really big breasts, and in their high heels, looked to be in a perpetual state of pitching forward.

Zach showed up, and fueled by a pizza lunch, we set out to follow the Kanda River across the city. Most of it was along or under busy streets, but eventually we found ourselves walking a berm lined with cherry trees. This berm took us away from the river and around the Imperial Palace's western boundary. We discovered our mistake late, but just kept on heading west, past the squatting frog-shaped Canadian Embassy, past Kanze's Sogetsu Hall next door, and on into Aoyama where we caught a train to Shimokitazawa and some fine Microbeers.

The next morning was an early start to Nikko. Just off the train, Zach and I moved through the forest, past lone Jizo under the high trees, and past rows of devas guarding cliffs. There is such a solid grounding energy there, with the mountains and water and very tall trees. We found a small temple dedicated to En-no-Gyoja, which led to us a trail head we would have missed otherwise. This was the path to Nyoho-zan, a climb that is a whole lot of up. It never really levels off at all, and is pretty punishing for the calves. Most of my recent hikes have been along roads and paths and were therefore pretty low. Getting up high was a reminder of different trees and vegetation, especially the birches, stunning white against all the new green. The vegetation in Kanto is different than in Kansai, and I spent most of the walk marveling at new shapes and colors. A long trench led us far below the mountain floor, the high grass that lined it waving as we passed. Some of this had been smoothed out and used by deer for their naps. We followed suit, flattening out a good lunch spot, with the views of lakes and other peaks further out. Moving on, we passed the only other two hikers we'd see, though later we'd find reminders that others had come before. Close to the top, the mountain's vegetation fell away to become tall spires of rock. A small plague had been hammered into one high formation, telling of a climber (or climbers) who's died here in October 1958. It was an ominious introduction to the rock field to follow, which required a sideways walk against the steep side, shoes succumbing to gravity and sliding every few steps. Once across, we were rewarded with a view of hell itself, down into an immense valley which was hundreds of feet directly below. Looking over into he abyss, I could feel my own nether parts trying to retreat into my body, and taking that first step away from the edge was to move feet suddenly heavy and firmly fixed to the ground. The dark earth and black rocks gave this place the name Kuroiwa, a col that seemed as if it would just break off and fall into space at any moment. The sound of falling rocks and landslides was constant through the fifteen minutes or so that we'd been up there, adding to the ominous feel. Across from us, long slabs of snow were melting into the valley, dropping as waterfalls for hundreds of feet. There also appeared to be a cave sealed in ice. The peak still rose well above, but the remaining snow and the late afternnoon conspired from letting us summit. We turned and went across the rock field again, a little more quickly now. Upon reaching the other side, I could finally exhale. At 2295m, I'd climbed higher than I'd been in years. And though I'm no stranger to walking over 20 km, I really paid for those first 10. But while the feet soon forget, the mind retains: the feel of the air, the smell of trees, that peaceful feeling of gratitude. I need to get up high again soon.

The remaining time in Nikko entailed lots of good food, hot baths, and sadistic massage chairs. Five year old Eli enjoyed the latter most of all, his face a mix of wonder and joy, with just a dash of fear. One morning he and Zach and I hiked smooth boulders along a fast moving river, under the watchful eye of a hundred Jizo covered in moss. Leaving the river, we'd marvel at the height of trees, at stones with just the right heft for throwing, at shrines acting as portals to those places where kami dwell. The final morning, I did yoga in a weathered Tendai temple hundreds of years old, planting my feet firmly and twisting up like all those wonderful trees outside.

Back in rainy Tokyo Tuesday night to meet up with Taiko Tari. The next morning was clear and offered promise. After a breakfast of pancakes on her balcony, we headed west, about halfway to Takao, where we'd planned to walk an old village and enjoy an onsen. But we arrived at the station to heavy rains and a 45 minute wait for the bus. Plan B was an Italian lunch in Shinjuku at Fungo, though I saw no one playing baseball at all.

Rain accompanied me all the way back to Kyoto. Surprisingly, I got a clear view of Fuji when the clouds parted, to reveal a hint of high mountains to come...

On the turntable: Southside Johnny, "Grapefruit Moon"

On the nighttable: Eric Rohmer, "Six Moral Tales"

Capitalism

I'm on the train again, bound at a ridiculous pace for Tokyo. The Shink always feels like we're on a jet that is in a perpetual state of take off. Strong G's push me into my seat. Out the window are the mountains of Kyoto and Shiga. I look over peaks and ridges now familiar, eyes tracing the lines where the trails are, calves remembering the pitches of the slopes. Further on, into Aichi and Shizuoka. Looking toward prefectures north, I notice the snow covered shapes of the big muthas beyond, lying in wait for the hikers to return.

In Tokyo now, I do my business, then meet up with Leza. The wine and chat is always tasty here. Recently, I've been really feeling the pull to be a dad again, so a few hours playing with Yuto is just what I need. Exhausted, I go sleep in the teahouse, trying to read but lulled into sleep by the wind in the bamboo outside.

The next morning I head over to Meguro early. I walk down the hill to Gajoen, a ridiculous structure of Heisei gaudy opulence superimposed on early Showa ornateness. The murals of the earlier era are still here, of 3D geisha and bushi, and ceiling 'fans' decorated with images out of a 1930s beer ad. It all feels more Taisho than Showa, and I almost expect to see Tanizaki in a smoking jacket sipping coffee beside the fake waterfall. (His hair is perfect!) Besides the garden, there is a mock up of a farmhouse built inside the far end. Jumping metaphors again, it is like a Vegas Casino with a pre-war Japanese theme, when the country looked more toward Europe than the States. Secondhand nostalgia. The number of staff here is massive, dressed in identical uniforms and strolling the long carpeted corridors like extras in a SciFi flick. (Metaphor quota thereby reached.)

I drop down to the concrete canal and walk beneath sakura moments away from blooming. The chilly wind seems to be against them. A single blossom of a single tree takes initiative, a fleck of spectacular pink against the dingy grey background. Further down the hill stands the Parasite Museum. I'd long wanted to go to this place, its reputation established both in print and by the word of friends. But I wasn't too impressed. OK, so I'd heard about the 8.8 meter intestinal worm; I'd heard of the photo of the guy whose scrotum would make a tanuki blush. Beside this, there was little more than dozens of small specimen jars containing a small fleck of white floating in deep dark blue, reminding me of those Jacques Cousteau shows of my youth. None of this really captured my attention, though it did make me rethink that raw deer and undercooked boar meat of a few days before. What made the trip worth it was the fact that, despite all the posters showing how to avoid getting a parasite, the toilets had no soap or towels.

I make my way to Ebisu next, and the photography museum. The current exhibit is early Meiji photography, not too extensive but just enough to keep me out of the wind for a hour. More than half of the exhibits are of Kyoto in the 1860s and 70s, so I stay awhile to look for familiar spots that are hardly familiar at all. Most startling is a panorama view of a Kobe twice gone, with avenues incredibly broad despite being decades away from the first automobiles. Stepping back out into my own century again, to walk Yebisu Garden Palace, that faux-European Meiji dreamland. I linger on a bench awhile, here in a city with few places to sit, a city made more for movement.

I eventually head toward the train station. In the past, I'd loved Tokyo, but this time I'm quickly agitated by all the people rushing about. I've spent a lot of time in Osaka this winter, but in that city there seems space to move. Here in the capital, I'm jostled and bumped near any train station I pass. Zach mentions that Tokyo people move deliberately, in straighter lines on weekdays, whereas on weekends the movement is more random. The reason why is obvious. This Tuesday, I find myself in commuter hell, faces pouring out of a mass, each becoming distinct on approach. I just can't go with everyone else's flow. I'm finding that my stay in Japan has begun to take on a parabolic shape, and recently I'm making a lot of the same 'rookie mistakes' as I did my first year here. I wonder if this is due to a subconscious emotional and psychological weaning away from my adopted home, in this, my last year here. Being so out of rhythm is probably related to this. In any case, I arrive in Yoyogi safely for my lunch with Taiko Tari, then walk toward Shinjuku. Near the station's West Exit, I see one hipster with a bleached mustache carrying a small dog of the same shade. The smoking area, marked with a Smokin' Clean! sign, has the population of a small village, all subliminally simulated by the large Coccoon Gerkin behind. I wander down nearby Shonben Alley, its no peeing signs an ironic historical deconstructionist critique. Toward Shin-Ogikubo, continuing the hike of the Yamanote Line that I started with Zach a number of years ago. Around me are signs of lingering hay fever, the sniffles of a few weeks ago blossomed now into full blown coughs.

I have a class this evening in Osaka, so board the Shink mid-afternoon. On these trips, we can often see those young women in uniform who stroll the aisles like beauty queens. I'd always assumed that they are security in disguise. Today, one is subtly kitted out in body-armor, an apparent new addition to this year's pageant. (I give her an 8.3.) This, plus the sight of a helicopter flying above us somewhere near Izu, worries me briefly, in these days of terrorism and bad action films. By Shiga, it's all long forgotten. Out the window, amidst the still-barren fields stands a single sign for the Shizen Hodo, a portent for another trip toward Kanto, sometime in my future.

On the turntable: Silver Jews, "Tanglewood Numbers"

On the nighttable: Tim Moore, "Continental Drifter"

Tokyo Interlude

As an eco-conscious, card-carrying member of the Green Party, I have to applaud the fact that Tokyo trains are running their A/C at a higher temperature recently. It seems that gone are the days where entering a train was like taking a dip in a Canadian lake.

So can we now do something about all the B.O.? It's a completely different type of environmental hazard...

On the turntable: Radio Paradise

Hippo Birdy Two Gnus

'Twas my birthday today. With every passing year, I strongly believe that I didn't grow up, just grew taller...

Cheers to the Tokyo gang who helped me celebrate. More like y'all celebrated, and I sat with my 50 yard samadhi stare, the latest victim of a yogic overdose.

Thanks especially for not singing that goddamn song...

On the turntable: Bob Marley, "Babylon by Bus"

On the nighttable: Paul Auster, "Leviathon"

Bon Hiver!

I step outside to get the paper. The whole valley is a sugarbowl. The sun is just now peering over the rim, and the air is filled with the sound of light rain, as the snow gently melts from the trees.

Huge bamboo trees seem to sigh as they can fiiiiinally put down their burden. Emasciated tree limbs are decorated with clear bangles. The street is really flowing now. Walking up the icy hill last night was quite laborious. I'm glad we don't have a car.

This morning has none of the violence of last week's walk in Tokyo, under the constant threat of being beaned by wet slushy glops. Stumbling through a constantly shifting, Dali-esque melting world. It was the ugliest snow I'd ever seen, a crow in a world of doves...

On the turntable: Shakti, "The Believer"

On the nighttable: Pico Iyer, "The Lady and the Monk"

On the reel table: "The Police Inside Out" (Copeland, 2006)

Spring Cleaning

April is the pinkest month. Or reddest, if you are factoring complexions. I am always pleased to see these shades, as they replace the oppressive white and dismal gray of the preceding winter months. So revel I did, awalk in the Higashiyama hills, or at a variety of events throughout the city. On one incredible weekend, I joined a farewell potluck for Yuka, heading to a new life in Kanto. We sat beside the Kamogawa, eating and playing music. I ran into Rick and Douglas for the first time in a long while. Before the party, I realized that I didn't have enough tempura to share, so I decided to eat it all myself. As I sat alone, gazing at the movement of water, I felt what I at first thought was a bicyclist hitting my arm. It turned out to be a huge hawk, which had flown out of my blind spot to steal my food. Karma from above. Looking at the remains of my lunch, I decided to feed the group of about twelve hawks which had by now come out of nowhere. I'd throw a piece into the air, which they grab with their talons (never missing!) and flip into their beaks.
Come evening, I went uptown to Roger's housewarming party, with it's varied food and personalities. Then, with the clock flipping over into Sunday, I went home to greet Hide and Sawako, over from Osaka and staying the night.
The next day Hide gave a talk on totem poles at Honen-in. Afterward, I bid farewell and biked across town to Kara's own sayonara thing. As usual, the food and performances were fantastic. I've grown to love her theme parties, and will miss them as much as I'll miss her. She even gave me a didgeridoo, as if to commemorate our (admittedly short) friendship.

A few weeks later, Ben-chan (in town for two months!) and I were given free tickets to Miyako-odori. A few years ago, this kind of event would have thrilled me. And while enjoyable, it really brought attention to the shift into a new phase of my life here in Japan. While in the 'Nog, I'd always considered a life in the Kyo to be the pinnacle to one's stay, but now that I'm actually here, I'm hardly doing anything "cultural" at all. I suppose this reveals a sense of settling, being comfortable in whatever clothes you have on. Anyway, as the drumming called the first round of Maiko onto the stage, I couldn't help notice that they all looked computer animated. (The perils of formalized art.) The backdrops, representing the seasons, were beautiful, and through their bright hues I realized how much more colorful the world must have been, in those days before concrete and exhaust. The summer backdrop revealed a Kitayama mountainscape made familiar from long bike rides home. The effects overall were incredible, especially the fireflies which were basically long wires with small flashing lights at the end. (I like the thought that there were low ranking maiko at the other end of these wires, waving from above.) The music was lovely, though unmoving, which is my bias, not appreciating 'canned' music, even when it's live. I need spirit and more personal interpretation. Besides taiko and shakuhachi, most Japanese trad music leaves me cold. During the performance, I suddenly remembered that a year ago to the week I'd seen the shitty Hollywood interpretation of , "Memoirs of a Geisha" based on that even shittier book. (Essentially "Showgirls" in kimono, with a "8-Mile" interpretation on this very event which I was watching.)

A few days later, I went over to Ei-U-In to sit awhile with Satish Kumar, who was holding court before the beautiful garden. It was a very casual afternoon, with just a dozen people or so hanging out, talking freely about nature and spirit and whatever. I'm still amazed at Satish's eyes, so bright and alive. He wielded an incredible amount of energy, considering he was there all day. I at first was nervous to meet him, having reviewed his last book for KJ, but he enjoyed the review and actually thanked me. I thanked him too; it isn't often one meets a hero.

And April saw other things too--my own live Taiko performance; a Takeuchi hanami party; a trip to Tokyo for budo beers with Ben, Zack, Steve, Ron, and Brian; tough yoga with Gabriella. But I'm heading north for Golden Week and am out of words anyway...


On the turntable: "Festival in the Desert"
On the nighttable: E. Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon"

Suddenly Last Summer Last

The walking theme which has reappeared throughout my recent posts really began during the last weekend of September. MatsuMiki and I started the weekend with one of Dana's patently fun yoga classes at Furla, then set off into the city. Miki was in high spirits, which amazed me since she'd spent the night on a bus. Her easy laugh and light chitchat carried us along until we found ourselves in front of a large temple. A festival was in full swing, and as we stood there looking, an old man came up and gave us free tickets, entitling us not only to admission, but also to soba and snowcones. Free! So we ate, sitting on the steps of the temple, trying to see who was having more fun--the kids or the drunks.
About fifty meters away was Rainy Day Cafe. Miki had wanted to surprise Yuko-san, a friend who ran this place. Unfortunately we found it closed. As we were peeking thru the glass, thumbs raised to brows, who should spot us but Yuko, who was spending the day here in order to catch up on a translation for Coyote, the magazine she works for. She invited us in for coffee. We spent a couple happy hours here, the women catching up, me browsing the amazing collection of Beat books. Yoko told me how much trouble she was having with her current translation project and handed me a piece of paper. I found that I was holding the only existing copy of an essay Gerry Lopez wrote on yoga philosophy. Great surprise for me there.
At dusk, Miki and set off toward the heart of the Yamanote. The Roppongi Hills building was our landmark, standing huge and backlit against an overcast sky, the lights of the city turning the clouds the color of antifreeze. We wove thru Aoyama cemetary and ducked under tunnels, but no matter where we stood, or which way we turned, that tower still loomed above. I flashed on a scene from the '76 version of King Kong, where Jeff Bridges heads toward the Twin Towers to save Jessica Lange. Arriving finally at Mori's folly, we met with Dylan, an artist and former roommate of Miki's back in the Kyo. She and her husband Shinobu led us away from all that neon and glass, down not exactly a hill but into what could be more considered a hole, at the bottom of which were a dozen or so house of pre-war vintage. We settled in with wine and conversation, Shinobu entertaining us with stories about noisy neighbors and thin walls. In the house next door were a middle-aged man and his hard-of-hearing mother. Dylan said that their loud arguments more than made up for the lack of television.

The next day, MatsuMiki and I continued our walk, this time thru the forests and moss-covered graveyards of Kamakura. Three bows to D.T. Suzuki, then on into the hills, dropping down to the pirate's lair of Zeniarai Benten to wash our material wealth, and on to the Daibutsu to meditate on its impermanence as we paid admission. Queueing in the rain to enter the giant statue, where once inside we found--nothing. Form is emptiness. Emptiness is form. Back in Tokyo, we further reflected on this balance in the teahouse behind Leza's house, where we spent a rainy night. The good food and wine served as samsaric anchors for the lofty conversation in the main house.

Seeking another pendulum swing the next day at YogaFest. Inside the building there were dozens of yogis and yoginis clutching their mats and water bottles as they waited for their next workshop. There were also an equal number of fashionistas with their hard faces. They say it takes 43 muscles to frown, but only 17 to smile, so I reckon these latter folks were getting a damn good workout. After Leza's enjoyable pair yoga class we tried Miura Toshiro's workshop. I really found myself hooked on Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy.
Afterward, as we rode the Shinkansen into a sun setting on the last day of summer, I had no idea that I'd be back in Tokyo a few days later, to begin intensive training. Yoga, and lots of it, would be the theme for autumn.



On the turntable: "Africa Fete 99"
On the nighttable: John Dougill, "Kyoto"

Three-Minute Chart Topper

The broken clock above the heads of the speakers seemed a metaphor for how slowly time was passing. I was in Tokyo for a few days, and decided to attend a publishing party of sorts. But this one had an unusual theme. Two famous writers were playing songs and talking about them. The common thread was cover songs, and these two would play the original, then a cover version that differed wildly from the first. It seemed an interesting premise, but the problem was that these guys had nothing really to say. I'd expected some background information, something along the lines of Bob Dylan's amazing "Theme Time Radio Hour" program. Instead I got dialogue like:
"Wow, that song is really great."
"Yeah."
"He has a nice voice doesn't he?"
"He sure does."
"..."

I felt like I was watching two morning DJs, but without the cowbells and mirth. Really, how much can you say about music? It's so subjective. I am afraid to write too much about it since that seems to suck all the life out. Who was it that said, "Writing about music is like dancing about architecture"? Another problem was the choice of songs. Names like Paul Anka and Tom Jones bring to mind shaggy carpets and mirrored ceilings. The songs themselves were heavy on the strings and Moog, with overblown production. Even The Beatles classic, "Yesterday" is overproduced, if you think about it. But take away the orchestra, and Shelby Flint's cover is pure swingin' jazz cool.
This event was billed as "An Evening of Adult Music." But this "adult" music was all very commercial songs, more about marketing than art, motivated (in my mind) by balding men in wide lapels and smelly cigars. Many in the crowd seemed lost in nostalgia, being mainly of that generation that still wears watches. Throughout the two hours, these watches got more than the occasional glance. Yet I still had fun and am glad I went.


A few days later in the Kyo, I attended another publishing party, this one to promote the latest issue of Kyoto Journal. But this event was light of words and heavy on community. Friendship, unlike music is very much objective. Well, except maybe to a hermit. But can a hermit be anything but subjective?



On the turntable: "Soulin' Volume 1"

Go West

After a couple years as a practicing nomad, I thought that things would slow down after setting up my yurt in the Kyo. This fall, it doesn't seem so. Besides repeated commutes to Tokyo every few weeks for yoga training, I also took a couple trips out to Western Japan. In mid-October, I took a overnight trip to the 'Nog to visit my son Kenshiro's grave and to deal with some baggage, both figuratively and literally.
Last week, MatsuMiki and I spent the weekend in Hiroshima. Saturday afternoon we crossed over into Yamaguchi for my first ever visit to Iwakuni, drifting up and across the famous bridge like Mary Poppins, following the direction of our raised umbrellas. We carried on into the heavy seasonal rain, into the mountains to the lair of bandits. Sanzoku is a series of ramshakle buildings built along a small stream which leads to a small shrine. We settled into the loft of one of these buildings, marvelling at the dexterity of the servers who ducked under the thick roof beams taken from a tree many centuries old. We ate massive chicken haunches off the bone like 'Enry the Eighth. I was, I was.
We saved some room for sukiyaki, served up by MatsuMiki's mom back in Hiroshima. The food theme carried over to the next day, where we had a lunch date out on Nomijima, the island where MatsuMiki grew up. As the ferry cut through water both above and below decks, my thoughts were less on my stomach and more on the poetry of Donald Richie. Thus we sailed on into the realm of pirates and the Heike, their once terrifying faces now expressionless in death.


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Blues"
On the nighttable: John Carroll, "Lightning in the Void"

No moss

This past weekend was a microcosm of my life and interests.

Thursday saw me in Tokyo at the 30th anniversary party of Printed Matter Press. Over wine and a nice buffet, I ran into a few old friends and made some new ones. Entertainment was a mixed bag of poetry and music. Some really great characters in the house, forming the cornerstone of a lively and vibrant expat subculture.

Friday morning I spent watching the koryu demos at Meiji Shrine. I go every year, more as a chance to see friends than anything else. Yet I am beginning to appreciate the demos more and more, starting to develop an awareness to the subtle differences in style between the schools. Does this reflect a maturity in my own training, or simply that things become familiar with repeated viewings?

That afternoon I spent in Ginza for my Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy training which will wind up later this month. Enjoy the group but won't miss the commute.

Saturday, early, I headed down to Okayama to take part in the Takeuchi demos. This year is the 20th anniversary of this event, so rather than being held in the usual dusty concrete thunderdome, we got to "fight" on the grass at Korakuen garden. A gorgeous day under blue skies, beauty static in the form of flowers and stone, and beauty in action in the form of swirling bodies and spinning oak.

Sunday, up to Ishikawa for the 20th anniversary concert of Honno Daiko. Just getting there took most of the day, riding a series of trains which grew smaller and smaller. A nice change from the frantic Bullet Time of the previous few days. Honno Daiko was smoking, both musically and aesthetically. (They have the taiko world's most exciting costume changes since Leonard Eto.) Incredible, effortless power coming from three women. I personally feel that aside from Kodo, this is the best Taiko group in the world. As it was a special gig, there were a few special guests, including Kodo's own Yoshikazu. Watching him and Honno Daiko's Jige Akemi play Odaiko together was magic. That ten minutes alone was worth the trip. Marcin's Nov. 9th "Lost in Translation" entry has more detailed text, plus photos, and video. So click away.

http://lost--in-translation.blogspot.com/2006/11/trip-to-ishikawa-ken-1-out-of-blue.html




On the turntable: Joe Strummer bootleg
On the nighttable: Ryu Murakami, "69"

To the east again

A month ago, I`d noticed that Tokyo, in a near unanimous showing of thick, earth-tone solidarity, had declared summer over.
Today, I saw that Fuji had already put on her white winter coat, in these early days of October.


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Desire"
On the nighttable: Nicolas Suino: "Budo Mind and Body"

To the east...

In Tokyo for a few days. Tokyo dresses far better than I do.


On the turntable: U2, "Under a Blood Red Sky"
On the nighttable: Taichi Yamada, "Strangers"

On the Chuo, late spring

Thinking a train is coming,
I look to see a woman
Dragging her wheeled suitcase


Face deep in my book;
Look up after Shinjuku
To see a new set of faces


Nakano;
A cute girl picks her nose
As she texts




On the turntable: まーちゃんバンド, "南ぬ風人"
On the nightable: Alfred Hitchcock, "Stories to Stay Awake By"

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Let me just blow the dust from this recently neglected blog. It's now a year old as of May 9th. I can't quite remember where I was at the time, these first two weeks of the month being a maelstorm of activity, bringing with it Golden Week and a matriarchal invasion force. I was in motion, something I usually don't do during holiday times. But this year I stepped into the breach, and it went a little sometin' like this (Hit It!)

Sayonara party for Kat which begat long amblin' bouts of silliness with Shell's beau Nate, visiting from America (Fuck Yeah!) which begat after hours karaoke which begat boisterous singing which begat cottonmouth thirst which begat a rainbow of drinks which begat a samba beat hangover which begat vomiting while bathing (a first).

The following night, teatotalling at a party at Kyoryukan in the Kyo. Butoh and jazz and tap, Oh my! Cooling off on the roof, I spied what may have been a UFO over the Imperial Palace, plus a little silhouette of a man running across a roof on the next block.

Hike from Ichijoji over the top of Hiezan and down to Biwa. Deep in the forest, heard the puzzled screams of monkeys, and surprised a couple cuddling at the Buddha's feet.

Multiple meals with visiting friends over the following days. Sunshine means outdoor dining in the Kyo.

Walked the Kamogawa, from Kitayama to Shijo. In Tagh's, ran into Ady, down from Tokyo. Joined the masses in a bar crawl, which led us to Greenwich House. Midway through my first drink, it dawned on me that E-Ma Mari had sung here the week before.

Beautiful afternoon going park to park with Zack, Dana, and Eli. Breaking the (social) law by engaging in "mastication and ambulation" which led to Dana and my keeping the rhyme scheme going for almost an hour. Stacy came down from Gunma for wine, pasta, and Tarentino's surprisingly graphic new film.

A hike up the back side of Takao, with lunch and nap on a stream's small island.

My first trip to Yokohama, fighting the crowds to get to a Chinatown restaurant famous for rice gruel (and well worth the rep). Follow the neon lit waterfront awhile. Pay waaay too much for bad jazz and bad wine in Japan's highest building.

Pick up Mom and Maggie at KIX. My patented jet-lag cure? Wine and conversation in the back garden.

A few days in the 'Nog. Driving the villages of Shimane. Boat trip round Matsue castle. Daisen antiques and Aloe Cafe lunch. Visit to my tea sensei. Plus the usual cuisine, which I only seem to eat when folks come from abroad. Conveyer belt sushi anyone?

Obligatory Izakaya stop. Invite my better friends from the expat community. Number's have dwindled much this year, and sadly, I now no longer have to take off my socks to count them. [Hello Kyoto!].

A few days in the Kyo, with a side trip to Nara. Hit the major tourist spots, many I haven't hit in over a decade. Dodge the students who seem to be everywhere.

Send mom on her way, then walk the Kamogawa again, heavy with water from the week's rain. Bathe in the moonlite.

Watch the Aoi Matsuri procession awhile. Then round third and head for home...


On the turntable: "From Detroit to St. Germain"
On the nightable: Simon Winchester, "Korea"

Leggo my Edo

After leaving the Kyo, I took a brief detour to Tokyo for the Nippon Budokan's Kagami Biraki. I'd been to the Budokan years before, representing Tottori prefecture in a Shorinji Kempo tournament. That day, my fellow competitors probably had thoughts of glory, but all I could think was, "Holy Shit! John Lennon sang here, man!"
I'd hope to see Old School Koryu, but today's event seemed to focus only on modern martial arts demos, with the usual packs of noisy, rambunctious kids. So I decided to stay just for the first half hour, to see the process of weekend warriors in their armor. Two groups came out to a song reminiscent of the Death Star theme, and the two "leaders" ran through mellowdramatic speechs that were straight outta some Vegas show, as choreographed by NHK. Then they got down to the business at hand, cutting through a large pile of rice cakes with a sword, and smashing open a large barrel of sake with a mallet. Yet before the procession, I noticed a group of men rolling out the items in question. As you can see, the mochi's already been cut, the barrel broken. Prepackaging for the samurai set.

The rest of this warm day I spent drifting from restaurant to cafe to pub. Mahi mahi at Bubba Gump's in Gorakuen, chijimi in some Shibuya Korean joint, a couple pints in Dubliners. A restless night in an Ikebukuro hotel, where from the next room came sounds of passion, her climaxes punctuated by horror movie screams. The next morning, after spending less than 24 hours in town, I headed back toward the 'Nog.

On the turntable: Death Cab for Cutie, "Transatlanticism"