The Narrow Road to the Great White North

Autumn came on slow. The sky has been clear, blue, flawless, and the sun comes down and keeps the temperature high. It's been the perfect weather for driving in, passing from shadow to shadow of the trees doing their annual magic act.

One afternoon, my aunt and I drove around northwest Connecticut. As we passed certain lakes and towns, she told me the part these places played in the family history. After a nice lunch outside, we dropped by a farm to get pumpkins and fruit. The hills beyond rolled away toward Canada. So the next day I followed them. A straight line northeast, into a Massachusetts looking more worn than the rest of New England. The larger towns seemed overwhelmed by a changing world where history no longer mattered. Many of their churches seemed in the throes of desperation, with signboards bearing weird slogans like "October 14th, 30 hour famine," or "The ten commandments aren't multiple choice." By contrast, further out in the country, the churches were still holding the centers of smaller villages, the town green extending toward the obligatory single street lined with old wooden shops. Between these villages were large swathes of forest hiding immense houses with immense lawns, and lakes to maintain the color.

By late afternoon, I had made it to Portland, Maine. I had lunch in the waterfront, with trendy shops and galleries where tourists could walk off the meals had in old taverns and converted restaurants long tied to a historical fishing industry. I followed the back alleys down the piers lined with stacked lobster traps and boats finished for the season. The smaller streets were still paved with brick, which made me think a little of Seattle. I got back to my car and realized that I had forgot to put money in the meter, but even after an hour I hadn't been ticketed. Lucky. I drove east. I went through Freeport, crowded with people on pilgrimage to LL Bean, which has made autumn into a lifestyle. Further out, the towns grew more spaced and the rivers wider, more wild. Crossing one, I looked back to see the sun touching the hilltops out west. Turning back to the road, I saw a group of cottages lining the Sheepscot River. Again, luck was with me as I could get one for the night cheaply. Mine was a small cottage, and much bigger the the apartment of my friend back in NY. The living room and the bed both had views of the sun setting over the sailboats tied up in the bay. I went down to the water's edge watching the tide swirl the kelp until it grew too dark to see anymore.


The next morning I set off early. I stopped for an hour or so in Searsport, a small village which used to have quite a large shipbuilding industry. The maritime museum was a small lane containing seven buildings and a church. I walked around, drawn to the old oil paintings of seascapes and tall masted ships. I thought of the different faces travel has taken in different times. Whereas in the old days a person would be drawn to the sea, to months and years away from home, while a person of the same character today might set out today on a roadtrip, or an extended backpacking jaunt across a continent. Kindred spirits, though admittedly with different risks. Today the town was having some kind of festival, with elaborately decorated pumpkins and scarecrows, and horse-drawn carriage rides. I pulled out just as the police closed the main road for the parade. A couple hours later I was in Bar Harbor. A cruise ship was in port and the town, normally sleepy this time of year was crawling with Brits. Parking was surprisingly easy to find since everyone came by sea. Had Paul Revere repeated his wild ride last night, calling out to Robert Newman to hang two lanterns from the town church? I had lunch at the waterfront, wandered town a bit, then drove toward Acadia Park. It dawned on me that as a boy I'd seen this place in an old photo book and had been floored by the scenery. Dense, dense forests tangled in a mess of wind weathered trunks opened to give glimpses of perfectly shaped bays of shimmering sun and sailboats. I was almost a cliche in its magic. Around every turn a view that topped the last. After a couple hours, I was spent so went back up to Bar Harbor to sit in the village square and read in the grass. My friend Jen finished working late afternoon, so I drove out to her place in the woods. It was a small house unseen by the main road and surrounded by more of that thick density of trees. Her dogs needed a walk, so we took them through the woods toward the beach. They'd been in the house all day and simply tore through the trees at high speed, nipping at each others face and ears in play. They darted on and off the trail at high speed, one time even passing through my legs as I jumped up, my feet connecting with their backs so that for a moment, I was dog surfing. Jen and I had met in Vermont in June but hadn't talked since then. We caught up, walking the stones and stepping over tree trunks. A bald eagle landed in a tree across the bay. She told me how humbling she finds these woods and is happy to have put down roots here. Me, ever wandering, envy this. We had dinner later, but she'd made plans she couldn't escape, which made me dogsitter for the night. The first rain began to fall, but I sat warm inside, with tea at my side, dogs at my feet, and trees absolutely everywhere. My sleep was dreamless, filled with shadow...

I leave really early into the gloomy morning. Getting coffee in a small village on the south of the island, I saw one woman looking at the flyers in the window of a real estate office. I know that feeling well, of falling in love with a place so deeply that you begin to fantasize about moving in. A street over, a local with a screwed up Popeye face scrutinized me with one eye as I move past. I drove the perimeter of the island, eventually joining highway 1 again, which I followed east for most of the morning, sometimes taking smaller roads in an attempt to stay with the coastline. The day began to clear, but the wind stayed strong, making this the first true first day of fall. I moved ever east. The number of cars grew thin as the road led toward the border. Houses gave way to trees and those occasional moose crossing signs disappeared altogether. I image the woods are thick with them up here. But it felt like I was alone as I counted off the miles to Canada. I love this feeling, this 'fin-de-seicle' of geography, of moving toward a point that is an extreme. Near Lubec, it is just that, being the easternmost point in the US. The grass at that corner of the yard is worn thin by the feet of visitors. I too stand there, take my photos, then move on. In Lubec itself, I find a village deserted this Sunday, all these buildings stand empty, the Canadian winds blowing from across the river have made their blue-grey paint go almost turquoise. I stand and look across, but then get in the car and drive up to the crossing at Calais.

It's a breeze going across, but I still get that weird guilt and worry even though I have nothing to hide. At the border, I'm thrilled to find a moneychanger, since this is Sunday and I completely spaced out those logistics. Worse still, I think that tomorrow may be Canadian Thanksgiving and banks may not be open, hotels may be full. The first thing I see in Canada is a group of right to lifers picketing some place. Behind them is a grocery store called "Choice." This seems to have turned some tumblers in my head. I can't explain it, but I feel really confused for the next first half hour or so. I'm often overwhelmed at new cultures and countries but this is Canada, for godssake. I calm down and then realize that my speedometer doesn't have the markings for kilometers. A minute later I decide to think in multiples of six and after that, I'm fine. On to Saint John.

I arrive to find a city completely devoid of people. I mean no one, no cars, no people. I'm still not sure if tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and a moment ago I passed a clock that was an hour ahead of my watch. I can see myself running the Saint John streets like Jimmy Stewart, shaking people as asking, "What day is this?", "What time is it?" But there is no one to be seen, and I make a leap from "It's a Wonderful Life" to "28 Days Later." I walk the empty streets awhile, then sit in the sun in an ancient graveyard. The stone nearest to me is for an 8 month old child who died in 1825. Unbelievably, someone has left a single yellow rose. I'm sick of Saint John already and want to go. I've said many times that a city's beauty depends on whether it has embraced it's waterfront. A few blocks south, the city just ends at a fenced in lot. The sea is about 30 meters beyond. On the way back to my car, I decide to get a cup of coffee at Tim Horton's, which appears to be a chain shop. Inside, I talk with my first Canadian. The conversation goes:
"One medium French Vanilla coffee and that (pointing) chocolate glazed."
"You want a donut?"
The million Canadian jokes I've heard (or told) simultaneously rush into my head.

A short drive brings me to St. Martin, which is the most beautiful place I've seen in NB so far. As feared, one B&B turns me away because they are full--of family. The smell of turkey coming from the door behind this sweet old woman is killing me. Luckily, I find a place nearby, in a large pretentious house on a hill. The room is large, but there are far too many flowers on the wallpaper. Here too, I get a turkey dinner, and I sit happily wondering what it is that Canadians have to be thankful for. It's a happiness steeped in confusion since my watch, room clock, and clock over the dining room all show different times. I know it's not important, I'll merely eat, then read, then sleep, but having absolutely no idea what time it is is unbelievably disorienting. Is this why we look at the clock first thing if we awaken in the middle of the night, even if it is full dark?


The next morning, the roads leading out of town are deserted, and I have the Bay of Fundy drive all to myself. I stop at the various turnoffs, take photos, hike around a little. The ground here is moist, the moss-covered trails almost squishy. Here too, the woods are dense and thick, a far cry from the overgroomed forests of Japan. I continue on to the national park itself. I am running dangerously low on gas, but luckily, the last few kilometers into Alma are steep hills. I fill up, then walk the beach, listening to the local fishermen talk in a dialect I've never heard. At nearby Hopewell, I hike to the rocks, but the tide is high and I can't get down to the beach. I keep driving. It's a beautiful fall day, and I'm giddy. New Brunswick is a truly bilingual province, and I read the French words out loud in the voice of Cajun Man, from that old SNL skit. I follow the bay as it funnels toward Moncton. The tide is falling now, and each bridge I cross looks down on multiple shades of brown left high by the receding water. The tide differences here in the Bay of Fundy are the highest in the world, and I image that mud must play a large part in the lives of the people here.

Outside Moncton, I find Magnetic Hill, a weird place where your car, if left in neutral, will roll backwards uphill. I wonder how my brainwaves are affected, as I cross into Nova Scotia...



On the turntable: Robert Mirabal, "Taos Tales"
On the nighttable: W. Somerset Maugham, "Far Eastern Tales"

Sunday papers: Whit Stillman

"Passion is the hare, conformity the tortoise."

On the turntable: White Stripes, "De Stijl"
On the nighttable: James Welch, The Indian Lawyer"

No Sleep 'Til...

Brooklyn. I'd never been out here before. Monday morning I found myself in Park Slope, walking Flatbush Avenue, a name I knew from a lousy Stallone film. I was out to here to visit Shivani, a friend I'd met up in Vermont at PRYT training last June. After practice, she and I could often be found at the Bobcat, drinking beers and swapping India war stories. In the yoga world, it is a delight to find those who 'keep it real." We spent the day wandering her 'hood, down the old streets lined with brownstones, up the Avenues lined with trendy cafes and used bookstores. Whereas nearby Williamsburg is better known as an artistic enclave, Park Slope is where the more moneyed set went to escape rising Manhattan rents. There is a cool vibe here too, but it costs more. A nice exception is the Tea Lounge, where I spent most of my time. It's the sort of hipster cafe where you sip your Italian coffee not behind a well-thumbed paperback, but in front of your laptop. A silver MacBook seems to be the black beret of the current decade. I felt anachronistic in reading my novel. The bathroom here was filled with graffiti of a political theme and next to one bit about the British responsibility in creating the Palestine mess, someone had written the Boddhisattva vow. MCA perhaps?



Mid-afternoon, I arrived back in Connecticut. Literally five minutes off the train, I suddenly felt exhausted. While in the city, had I been 'girding' myself against potential harm? Here in the safety of the countryside, could I finally let go? It's bizarre, especially since I had felt no danger at all. There were a couple sketchy looking characters on the train, but I never for a minute felt in harm's way. New York is a far safer place than I remember. I was reminded of a friend telling me how after he returned home from years in Japan, he found himself scared of black people and felt guilty about it. I can understand, but after giving it more thought I realized it was something else. One of the major benefits of martial arts study is the ability to recognize (and avoid) potential threats. I found that my instances of fear were rooted more in a reaction to how a person presented themselves, that way which screams, "Don't even think about fucking with me!" I found that I was reacting to the body language, not to the skin color. On this particular trip, the most intimidated I felt was when approaching a group of four tall white dudes done up in baggy hip hop style and walking down the dark street in that loose-jointed way that Tom Wolfe so brilliantly dubbed the "pimp roll."
There's nothing wrong with a little caution. As the proverb says, "Trust in Allah, but tie your camel to the post."




On the turntable: Kronos Quartet, "Performs Phillip Glass"
On the nighttable: Peter Moore, "The Wrong Way Home"

In the City

Hopped a southbound train in Waterbury, CT. The tracks were covered with the first fallen leaves of the season, and as the train passed, it seemed to be trying to blow the leaves back up into the trees. At Grand Central, I took the subway to the East Village, making my way toward Life Cafe, heavily featured in the musical "Rent," though I found that out later. I had come here to meet Michael, whose blog I had somehow found about a year ago. Back in the 90's, he'd lived in Japan, and his writing often reflects back to that influence. More recently, Michael has been documenting the changes happening around the east village, the area where his father was born, exactly 100 years ago. This immigrant neighborhood and its low rents eventually gave rise to an artist/hipster culture which has slowly been eroding due to rising rents and rich types filling (or expediting) the void. The center cannot hold, and Michael has been photo-documenting the loss of a neighborhood's soul. Over two days I followed him as his eye and his camera led him around. As expected, he knows most of the more colorful characters.

Bolivar Arellano's studio was closing that Sunday. His final exhibition was a series of 9/11 photos taken by local photographers. Many of these were too graphic to be shown in the mainstream media. Heavy, heavy stuff. While I was looking around I heard Michael and a Canadian journalist talking about that day, and the eerie days that followed where birds and cicadas could be heard due to the absence of planes in the air. (Interestingly, this contrasts exactly with an impression of my own. On that late 2003 US trip where I was looking for the pulse of the country, I was walking up Madison to the Whitney Museum, hoping the Hoppers would shed some light on the dark side of the American dream. Suddenly a plane flew over, and everyone on the sidewalk literally stopped and looked up. Very, very odd.) Michael has an interesting post of the story of Bolivar here.

We popped into WAGA to talk with Oueni. This shop sells African art, clothes, and musical instruments. The entire time we were there, his stunningly gorgeous girlfriend danced in front of a mirror, sexily gyrating to the Afro-pop coming though the speakers.

We met Urgyen, a Tibetan who has a shop nearby. He told us a comedic incident involving a rather zealous woman friend who happens to be Soka Gakkai. Chenrezig give him strength.

We passed some time with his good friend, Jim "Mosaic Man" Power, a long-time local legend. I had a small part in his latest art piece, documented by Michael here. Jim's backstory here.

Along the way there were acrobats and waitresses, street musicians and homeless, dancers and punk bands. Plus basketball games, free microbrewed beer, late night tea at Teeny, Saturday night outer-borough punters, kids eating ice cream, know-it-all Cubans in wife-beaters, sunlit pumpkins, uptight lapdog pamperers, Physical Graffiti facades, basement Taoists, gay newlyweds, Hare Krishnas, urban bicycle cowboys, a massive owl, and a woman dining alone with Lonely Planet on her sidewalk tabletop.

Getting the picture? There are more here. Wander awhile.




Late Sunday, Michael dropped me off at the Chelsea Hotel, my digs for the evening. I stayed in room 702, and I wonder who else did. I dropped my bags and made my way down a staircase framed in art all the way. I walked uptown. Passed a cafe where the conversation at each table was in a different language. A cop jaywalked on 7th Avenue. A Latin guy repaired a window in a sports bar (the Mets dropped out of the pennant race that afternoon).

I found Times Square, absolutely overrun with people toting cameras. A Hasid stepped out of the crowd and wished me a happy Sukkot. My face must have shown surprise, so he asked me if I was Jewish. I smiled and shook my head and headed down 44th to Angus McIndoe's for a stout and a swordfish. To establish the night's Monty Python theme, I was sure to eat "more bread pudding" before crossing the street to see "Spamalot" which I'd missed two years ago. Brilliant. Then walked back out to Times Square, now done up in neon like a frenetic Shibuya. I tried to hide the fact that I was just another annoying tourist, but I too was mesmerized into blocking the sidewalk and slackjawed gawking. As I walked away, I wondered exactly when New York became a brand, with the obsequious "NYC" this and "NYC" that. Was this a post 9/11 thing, a light, Disneyesque attempt to lure tourist dollars back to a still-reeling city? Despite this logo, I found New York to be the most European of American cities (though I've never been to New Orleans), the effect being that while I was here, I began to really long for Europe.

Back at the Chelsea. I took a bath with a book and a beer. The label said something like, "We share in the rousing company of good spirits," so I raised a toast to any who might be lingering around, as the clock in the other room ticked closer to the month of Halloween.

I awoke early with a mild headache, caused perhaps by 123 years of cigarette smoke leaching from the walls. In the lobby, European bohos wrote on their laptops. These days, is it art if no one sees you do it? Once out on the streets I found myself walking the walk, directed by a map of New York as known by the Beats. It was a wonderful way to spend the first morning of October. A series of right angles led me past the former flats of late-1940s poets and painters. I saw where Kerouac worked on "On the Road," where Ginsberg fought his inevitability. I too wasn't insusceptible to the muse:

Near Ginsberg's old 15th St pad,
Two actors sit on the stoop
Rehearsing a scene

I passed Warhol's Factory, bought juice in Union Square market, looked at the photos of old ships at Chelsea Docks. I was born in this neighborhood, at St. Vincents Hospital, so I closed a 40 year circle. On the front steps, I marvelled that from this vantage point I'd first seen the outdoors.
My own journey had begun here.


On the turntable: Gomez, "In Our Gun"
On the nighttable: Ursula Hegi, "Salt Dancers"

Sentimental Journey

Drove south, zigzagging in and out of Vermont's Green Mountains. Much cooler today. The trees ripe in color after last night's storm. Nostalgic autumn sights and smells. A family playing horseshoes beside a lake. A maze cut through a cornfield. A brother and sister race to grab the best pumpkin.

At dusk, a walk in the forest near some wetlands, hoping to see moose.

Autumn in New England. There's no other place I'd rather be right now.


On the turntable: Tosca, "Delhi 9"
On the nighttable: Whit Stillman, "The Last Days of Disco"

Between

And now again, back in the States, basking in the cusp of autumn, brought on by a late afternoon Vermont thunderstorm.

On the plane over, I was for some reason upgraded to sit in the jumpseats usually reserved for the flight crew. I shared them only on takeoff and landing, with a Taiwanese beauty who kept up enough of a steady banter to keep my eyes and my mind off the usual pendulum swing between awe at the view and sheer terror at the unconceivable physics of flight. Connect in Chicago to board a plane next to a Korean student with long eyelashes and the fresh smell of PlayDoh. Land in Indianapolis's surprisingly progressive airport, with massage chairs and a kiosk selling Rosetta Stone language courses right in the terminal. As usual, I spent my first few hours thinking how fucked up everybody was. But I admit that my research was skewed since most of that time was spent in airports. And air travel brings out the absolute worst in absolutely everyone, in both the cattle and the cattle drivers. My uncharitable first impressions tend to go away quickly and are always the result of the fog which could be jetlag, but could also be a survival mechanism to deal with the sudden sensory overload, overhearing the syllables of my native tongue and my eyes drawn to shapes and letters which I can actually read.

In late 2003, I'd returned to the States for the first time after nearly 3 years away, trying to reassemble my world after the death of my son. While trying to reconnect with my own heart and soul, I'd returned to the source, an attempt at acquiring wisdom from the land of my birth. I sought it out on long train and bus rides, while wandering its cities, while flipping thru the pages of its recent novels. I never even came close to finding it since the country at that time, 9 months into the Iraq debacle, was a nation adverse to communication of any kind. Forget about emoting.
Ironically I find that heart now, in the book I was just reading, in Richard Ford's "Lay of the Land." Had it been published back then, I needn't have looked further. It is almost a thesis on fin de siecle America in 2000, yet in many ways I still feel the G forces from the continuous spiral. Here in Ford's insight seems to be the pulse of the America I have since rediscovered, a pulse beating with the blood of everyone whom I make contact.

I make my way to the religious center of the nation, to the mall. I get nearly all my hair chopped off as a sort of flight of passage into a new decade. In the chair, I sit and listen to all the hairdresser banter, reminding me of the dialogue from the film "Waitress, " itself seemingly the "Steel Magnolias" of the current generation. I think that there are few chances of long term love in a hair salon, where if a handsome man comes in at all, he won't return for at least a month or two. My hair was cut by an young woman who's absence of smile reflected possible love problems of her own. After a while we started to chat, and it turned out she had learned Japanese in high school. This town may be small but the world is far smaller.

I later meet a true speaker of Japanese, Eriko, who I married to Marty in my role as a minister. A group of us have pizza and beer on the patio of their beautiful new house, while my brother Eric sneaks out to the car to check the football scores. Flat-bottom boats cruise the perimeter of the lake on this, the autumnal equinox. In honor of the balance, of the equality, I spend one day indoors watching two films brilliant in the use of violence as art--"28 Days Later" and "Sin City." Another day is spent in the sun, at the park where Columbus Indiana is having it's first folk fest. Dave and I at first laugh at the fact that the town's three hippies are in the crowd (including himself in fact) and later begin a rambling conversation about psychology that expands to well over three hours, long after the beer and smoothies have run out.

On the flight to Vermont I change planes in Cleveland, which I honor with a "Spinal Tap" reference. Here in the heart of Rock 'n 'Roll, we are force fed country music and bad pop through the airport's sound system.
On the final approach to Burlington, the mountains below dazzle. A lone lake rests high in the peaks. They're smaller and much more welcoming than the snow-capped monsters of Montana and Idaho I'd seen a few days before. Off the wing, I see the fort where Ben and I basked in the warm sun on summer solstice. Time's flight needs no wings...



On the turntable: Matthew Sweet, "Altered Beast"
On the nighttable: Nicholas Shakespeare, "Bruce Chatwin: A Biography"

Stand Still Laddy!

I can't finish talking about my US trip until I tell the story of one bizarre thing that happened there. Well half of it happened there. The other half occured after getting back here to Japan. in a single month, I had the unpleasant experience of having to renew my driver's licenses in both countries. I'd expected the US variation to go far smoother. In my small town it's basically a process of eye check, photo, hand over ten bucks and you're set for 8 more years. But on his day there was a glitch. It seems that an updated computer system had found an outstanding warrant from Arizona, a place I haven't lived in since university finished in the long hot summer of '90. I'd never gotten any moving violations but over my last couple years there I'd gotten about 17 parking tickets on campus, which in the wisdom of youth I'd ignored until the University had threatened to withhold my diploma. I paid, or so I thought.
I called the State DMV but they couldn't find anything. Then I called the county--same result. City of Tucson likewise had no records of anything. With each of the people I talked to, I politely and patiently explained that I was only in country for a short time and ideally needed this cleared up by 4 pm today. Each of them promised to look into it and let me know. The whole process ate up the morning.
A few hours later, I got a call from the county. They found a citation from 1989 in the amount of $10. How can I pay? Don't worry, it's been cleared. Cool. OK, so can I have you guys fax that over to Belen? No problem. After about 15 minutes, I call Belen DMV to check if they got the fax. A woman informs me that she it isn't proper policy. Shit. I ask to talk to her supervisor. He's left for the day. Right, it's Friday afternoon. I ask her to please call him, which she says she'll do, but doesn't promise anything. Later, around 3:30, the supervisor calls. He tells me he's not showing any violation on the computer at all. Come down for your photo. As they are taking it he asks me how I did it. Arizona usually takes a couple months to do what I did in 5 hours. I shrug and walk out to the car, my new license warm in my pocket.

Japan, 2 weeks later. I'd long ago received a postcard telling me where and when to show up. The place was inconveniently in the middle of nowhere, south Kyoto, well away from the bus and train lines and we had to show up between 1 and 2 pm. . There was a huge queue of people stretched out the door and shuffling slowly toward the first window. Some workers were actually standing in front of doorways to tell the queue not to block it. Mind the tape on the floor please. We reached window one. Then two. Three. Work our way slowly along. I half expected window 6 to lead to a huge meat grinder out of the film, "The Wall." After an hour, finally cleared. I find a room, where I have to sit thru a 2 hour film. I find the moderator outside having a smoke. I do what I never do, pull the gaijin trump card. I say, "Look, do I really have to sit thru this? I probably won't understand most of it (a fib) and it's not really my first license. After all, I've been driving for 25 years already." No luck, as expected. Time means little to a man who smokes. So I find a spot in the back near the window. Once the film starts, I'll pull out my book and read by the small strip of sunlight bisecting the curtains. Then I notice that I have an assigned seat, right in the middle, directly in front of the moderator. My book stays at the bottom of my bag. I guess this film and lecture will be good listening practice for my Japanese language course which begins next week. The film starts...

In terms of time wasted, it was a draw. But there was almost a stereotypically predictable outcome. My experience in the US was a volitional greasing of bureaucracy's wheels with honey, yet constantly pushing, pushing, pushing. The Japanese sequel by contrast was passive. Stand in line, mind the tape, and try not to hit your head getting into the meat grinder...


On the turntable: Elton John, "Captain Fantastic"

US Notes (July flashback edition)

Miki and I spent a few mellow days at my mom's place in Belen, watching films, eating good spicy food, and simply sitting out back in the dark, staring at the stars and sky. One day we took the train up to Albuquerque, wandering downtown and visiting galleries in Old Town. The train was a new thing, having started running a month before and it was a treat to take good efficient public transportation in the States. Another evening we had dinner at Maggie's, while the cottonwoods outside burst into a snowstorm.

I wanted to take Miki to places special to me, so we drove up to Sandia Peak and walked along the crest to the Kiwannis cabin. After finishing university, I used to spend whole days here, reading all my literary giants and writing in my journal, fancying myself one of 'em. This was nearly twenty years ago, before "the outdoors" was a hot commodity, and fewer people went out there. Miki and I sat awhile and looked out over the city and at the clouds playing hide and seek with the lesser peaks out west. Before we left, Miki threw her mala down the cliff face. I'd bought the beads in India for her, but they'd broken a few days before, and she had wanted to return them to nature somewhere. I joked about how in a 100 years, some hiker would find them, and turn them in to an anthropologist at UNM, who'd write a thesis about pre-historic contact between the local tribes and southern Indian Carnatic kingdoms. Truly a history-making day, coupled by the fact that Miki went up the hill a girlfriend and came down a fiancee.

Later, we drove out to Acoma Sky City. We were forced to join a tour, which was quite militant about photos. Fair enough. Our guide Fred had a funny way of speaking his native language, using his whole body. He'd twist and bend slightly as he forced out the more complicated contortions of syllables, as if this language was learned and not innate. We spent a good part of an hour up there, following a drumming shaman along the dusty paths between abode homes, while a heavy monsoon poured down literally just off the mesa. Somehow we were untouched. Just like last time, lightning danced around me as I walked the sacred land of the Acoma.

At the end of our time in Belen, we drove north. After a quick stop in Santa Fe to take yoga with Tias, we continued on to Taos for my niece's 6th birthday. My sister and her boys were already standing around the grill, waiting for my brother to cook the Brats and veggie dogs. Later, we went out to Kimberley's place for pizza, the sun setting over the nearby ski area peaks. It was a mellow day, a vibe no doubt shared by the people attending the Taos Music Festival at that moment wrapping up back in town. The next day we all had a long breakfast, and then a stroll around the plaza. I'd see Kurt and Brigid in Boulder in a few days, but said goodbye to my mom, sister, and nephews. As always, I wasn't sure when we'd see each other again. Miki and I went out to Taos Pueblo, which had changed incredibly since I'd last been there 10 years ago. The admission fee was huge, coupled with a surcharge for photographers. On my previous visit, this place had been little more than a village, but today I noticed that half the homes had been turned into galleries, with the owners/residents selling paintings, clothes, and pots. With every trip to the States, I'm further and further awed by how deep the tendrils of materialism stretch. To see the ever growing commercialism was shocking, though I suppose that since countercultures are quick to be commodified, why not cultures themselves? I don't really known the details behind why a group would sell out so completely, but based on this region's history, I'm inclined to believe that they were forced to. Sad.

We drove south. A short detour to Santuario de Chimayo to look upon the crutches hanging on the wall and wash our hands with the sacred healing earth within. West then, out to Abiquiu, to walk the groomed paths and labyrinth of Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch. Nearby we found a turnoff and took the long dirt road out to the Church of Christ in the Desert. This one-lane road ran along a beautiful stretch of river feeding a green swath though the desert. We found the monastery at the road's end, its tall chapel of stone and glass a puzzle piece fit to a huge scar in the mesa face behind. It was a very quiet place. Walking the grounds we met Brother Timothy, who is in charge here. He was a kind and peaceful man quick to laugh and he encouraged us to come back sometime and bathe in the quiet of the place. Miki and I kept up the silence on the drive back, a slower pace than the drive out. I kept an eye on the storm clouds marking the horizon, hoping we'd be back on blacktop before the monsoon hit. The weather held, so we followed a different dirt road past the mosque to Piazza Bianco, an incredible group of rock spires made of sheer white sandstone. We walked around in the soft sand awhile, enveloped in silence as we watched these frail spires turn pink in the setting sun.

The next few days we spent in Santa Fe, wandering the Plaza and the galleries of Canyon Road, splitting our meals between cheap-ish cafes and take away from Whole Foods. One morning we went out to Bandelier, climbing around the Anasazi ruins and walking the trails. A few deer grazed just off the trail, and a small bear was being herded back into the hills by the rangers. This bear, being still quite young, seemed to be a little too used to humans. We followed it awhile, then went back to town.

On the third day we drove north, the pavement giving away just past Ojo Caliente. This road was right out of the Aussie Outback, long and straight, with the occasional huge truck looming up to kick stones at us as we passed. San Antonio Mountain guarded the border, its gentle grassy slopes stretching up to blue sky. An old SL train pulled across our path on it's way to Cumbres. Through the flatlands of southern Colorado, running parallel to the lesser Rockies that shelters the sand dunes and sacred Crestone and perhaps even UFOs. The mountains caught us, and we wound through valleys of rushing water overrun by day-trippers enjoying this, the 4th of July. Under the shadow of Red Rocks, to meet Kerouac's Rte 6 at Golden, then down through Nederland's canyon and into Boulder itself. Here we'd spend a few days.



In Boulder, we mostly chilled out with my brother and his daughter, long nights spent dining on his balcony, shaded by the nearby peaks, and watching the lightning out in the distance. One night while walking around a small lake, we got caught in a heavy storm, and had to take shelter in a playground. A few days later, we were caught in another storm while hiking higher-up in the Rockies themselves. I'd never got caught out like this before, and it was terrifying to huddle under a closely-spaced cluster of trees, quickly becoming a true believer in statistics. Another day Miki and I hiked up the notorious trail known locally as "Stairmaster." We lost the trail coming down, and instead took a quick descent down a deer trail which followed a small dry creekbed. Everyone later told us how crazy we were to attempt this in our sandals. In hindsight, I agree. Another day we went to the flea market. I ran into Clarke, the guy who ran my study tour to Bhutan 4 years ago. Other days we spent playing with Brigid at Naropa or CU or on Pearl Street Mall, before meeting up with my brother for good beer and food at random cafes around town. Boulder in the summer truly is a magic place.


The last couple days in country were spent in San Francisco, as usual. I hadn't realized it, but we arrived the day before the All Star game, and baseball furies were everywhere. We dropped our bags at CLo's office which was a block from the baseball Stadium. We quickly left this chaos for the relative quiet of North Beach for pizza and obligatory City Lights browse and Trieste capp. Up to Coit Tower, then down to the waterfront, eventually meeting CLo downtown later for dinner.

The next morning we had a quick breakfast at a local cafe in Potraro Hill, then walked down into the Mission, up Valencia, through the Castro, up and over Corona Heights, then along Height to the Park, hitting all my 'spots' on the way. Miki and I read and played Battleship in a small cafe, sat atop the Corona Heights rocks for the view, had falafel in a Height coop. We continued west through the Park, past the freaks sunning themselves not far from where the posh people played tennis. One guy walked up to me and said cheerfully, "You look like a man who could use some nuggets." Since CLo works in the art world, he got us free passes to the DeYoung museum. We spent the better part of the afternoon here, completely floored by the Oceanic art, later recouping out back in the Turrell sculpture. We walked on, eventually arriving at the windmills and the sea. I dunked my feet in the ocean, as I did a few weeks before in Maine. We had a celebratory beer in a restaurant by the sea. CLo picked us up and we drove up to the Sutro Baths to walk the caves and watch the seabirds trace the coastline. This long day ended perfectly with take-away tacos from the Mission.

The next morning, we'd go back to Japan...



On the turntable: "Asia Lounge"
On the nighttable: Richard Ford, "The Lay of the Land"

Setting a pic: "Symmetry"

Sunday papers: Natalie Goldberg

"We should learn to talk, not with judgement, greed, or envy, but with compassion, wonder, and amazement."



On the turntable: The Band, "Across the Great Divide"

Abe-cadabra!

Wow! I never knew what a great magician the former PM was! Last month, he made the LDP's half century domination of the Upper House suddenly vanish. And earlier this week, he made himself disappear.
I wonder what his next trick will be. I hope it has something to do with Aso...

On the turntable: An electoral koan. What is the sound of one nation clapping?

I am a Camera

When I was in high school, I had wanted to be a film director. I applied to, and was accepted by, USC. In order to save money, I decided to go to University of Arizona for 2 or 3 semesters, then transfer. Somewhere along the way, I grew disillusioned with film studies programs, the camel's back breaking during a course which considered Blake Edwards to be one of America's greats. I soon changed to creative writing. However, film wasn't finished with me. I was lucky enough to be in U2's "Rattle and Hum" (look for me, I'm the small figure in the back singing and clapping), and "Firebirds," a Top Gun-ripoff with all the flight of the turkey the film turned out to be. More so than my (nothing ) role as a helicopter pilot, the true highlight for me was all the free food, as this was during my poorest of college days. This latter film turned me off Hollywood for good. To quote Flavor Flav, "Yo, fuck Hollywood man."

Film didn't seem to want to leave me alone. A UCSB course in "Literature and Film" almost inspired me to consider grad school there, but this was in 1991 and the height of PC attacking free-speech in a way that would've made Joseph McCarthy proud. I decided instead to go to Japan.

But film doesn't seem to be done with me. In the 'Nog, I helped with the music on a documentary my friends made about vending machines. Ten years ago, while living in Hong Kong, I attempted a make money as an extra. This was at the height on Japan's late 90's indie film boom, and I'd hoped to come back to Tokyo and find work somewhere. Yet my experiences on the set frustrated me, to see the slimy way that actors tried to instill favor with agents and producers. On the set of a film I did, I literally cringed as I eavesdropped on one guy on the phone. My season in Hong Kong soured me both on film and living in big cities.

Yet film has regrouped and made a full assault again. This current wave started two years ago when I went to visit Cath while she was doing film school in London. A couple weeks of film-laden conversations segued into a few days in Paris visiting a friend who is becoming something of a legend as a producer. My first night in town saw a rambling dinner at a bistro with a handful of major names in the French film world. This time I seem hooked.

Coming back to Japan, I started buying DVDs of some of the world's greatest directors, and watch 3 or 4 a week. It's begun to affect the way I see things. I've said before how I've grown sensitive to the quality of light. From time to time, I also notice myself mesmerized by a landscape, or the multiple layers of motion framed by my eyes.

All the above serves as an introduction. For on Monday, I finally scored a trifecta. I was in my first Japanese film. I got a bit part as a student in Kyoto language school. There was the usual obligatory waiting, but the shot was done in a mere two takes. The most interesting part was seeing the subtle cultural differences in how a film crew sets up a shot. Not sure what the finished product will be like, but it was good fun being on the set.

Next stop: Bollywood!



On the turntable: The Byrds, "Fillmore West 1969"

So Many Roads

In the shadow of Togetsu-kyo we eat soft cream, not far from where the well-dressed Chinese tourists take photos in front of that stone poem by Zhou Enlai. The trail up Matsuo-san is narrow and hard to find, leading up between two decaying houses that must've been gorgeous in another century. The initial ascent is steep and tough, not switchbacks but a lot of up. A man in his eighties pulls edible weeds from the hillside and puts them in the basket on his back. We stop to watch a centipede cross the trail and he overtakes us. Pretty spry for his age. Though we pass him again, he remains pretty close behind. We rest and drink tea at a small junction, then follow the loop trail up to the summit. There's an overlook partway up, where we find a bearded artist type listening to a ball game on his small radio. We look out over Western Kyoto, picking out landmarks. We've spent most of this year hiking the east side of town and it' s slightly disorientating to see things from the opposite side. Like looking at the back of a filmset. We find at the top a marker and a hollowed out animal cave. Down then into a valley, then begin to climb again. Halfway up, we meet a guy wearing a workweek shirt and tie, carrying a briefcase and slipping slightly in his dress shoes. It's Sunday. When he's out of earshot I say to Miki, "I pray we don't find the body of a young woman." The final decent ends at a small river. I dunk my head in, in the shadow of the small bicycles of boys frolicking somewhere further upstream.


On the turntable: Bright Eyes, "Lua"

Higher and Higher

Listening to John Birks blow,
I wonder aloud,
"Say, Diz, how far you wanna go?"


On the turntable: Charlie Parker, "Complete Savoy Live Performances"
On the nighttable: Victoria Riccardi, "Untangling my Chopsticks"

Full Moon Late July

Going up to Kurama-dera to watch the moon rise out of the valley below.
There was still room enough left in the sky for a few shooting stars.


On the turntable: U2, "Boy"

Setting a pic: "Lifelong Study"

Sunday papers: Neils Bohr

"Your theory is crazy, but it's not crazy enough to be true."

(Thanks to J for this one...)


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "World Gone Wrong"

The Beat Goes On

I had just finished typing the last post to come downstairs and find the postman had brought me the latest edition of Coyote Magazine. This particular issue is a special feature on Paul Auster. Weird.


On the turntable: Takeshi Hirayasu and Bob Brozman, "Jin Jin/ Firefly"
On the nighttable: Natalie Goldberg, "Writing Down the Bones"

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"

One more Saturday night

Last weekend I finally made it to a show at Honen-in. Wind Travelling Band was playing their mellow blend of wind and percussion. It was wonderful to sit on the veranda of the temple with feet dangling onto the moss, looking out at a garden not usually open to the public. Somewhere out in the darkness rang the hollow sound of the shishiodoshi, blending with the percussion, sometimes on the beat, sometimes off. Dragonflies kept up a constant buzzing of the stage, no doubt intrigued by the source of all the pleasant vibrations. Outside on the veranda, a woman in a sack dress contorted in spiralling butoh movements, arms writing sōsho in the air. What in particular inspired these movements? What subtlety in melody caused the shift from right to left, the slow, twisting body drop, the sudden tilt of the head? My eyes stayed with her awhile, until the music took me to my own mysterious places.



On the turntable: McCoy Tyner, "Enlightenment"
On the nighttable: John Banvile, "The Sea"

Setting a pic: "Ogi Dawn"

Sunday papers: Shinoda Masahiro

"If a woman wearing a miniskirt were to stand up in sight of Ozu's low angle camera, he'd be arrested for indecency."


On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "The Genuine Basement Tapes"
On the nighttable: A.B. Mitford, "Tales of Old Japan"

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"

EC at 20

This August, I've been around, but the words haven't followed, creativity bottled up behind the stopper of analytic thought. A punishing Psych course, followed by an intensive Japanese language program takes part of the blame. Choice of reading material takes the rest--heavy on non-fiction and the fiction that there was being more of the storyteller variety, far too little wordcraft to even poke my muse, let alone rouse her.
...So here again I attempt to blow dust from my quill and begin.

Miki and I got the news late. Our overnight train to Niigata wouldn't be running. We'd bought our tickets literally hours before that region's heavy earthquake, yet hadn't made the connection until a few nights before we were supposed to depart. Luckily, we got seats on the last express heading up to Toyama, and would make due with local trains the rest of the way. We arrived in Naoetsu late, our boat not scheduled until early the next morning. Making the best of it, we laid out our bed rolls on the concrete behind the ferry terminal to pass a restless night.

The trip over to Sado was my fifth, and as usual, time was divided between dozing and feeding the gulls who would dive to take the crackers from your fingers. Once in Ogi, we found a good shady spot for the tent, grabbed our tickets, and went over to the flea market area to set up our space for Miki to do shiatsu. Suddenly, the wind kicked up, making it impossible to put up our tarp cover. Then the rain started. Miki gave up, heading off to her voice workshop; I sat on the wet grass and people-watched. Our neighbor and I got talking and decided to try again once the wind ceased. It was successful until the rain grew heavier, creating small pools on the material which would then leech through. Unless the weather was perfect, this would never work. I was frustrated, having wasted this entire first day of the festival on the fucking operation. But I perked up after having a good meal and the weather began clearing for the night's show. In line at the shrine, I again saw Taiko Tari, who I'd met in the camp area earlier that day. I'd been enjoying her blog for the last year and we'd been in contact prior to this year's EC. She and her freund Maren had promised to save us seats up front by the stage. In year's past, I'd always just turned up at the show, preferring to sit partway back in order to see the overall setup. I mean, it's an outdoor show, and there isn't really a bad seat in the whole place. I never had been able to understand why people would spend hours in line just to get the colored cards which decided the order of entry. But now, sitting literally in the front row, I recognized that yes, "Oh my God!" is in the details. To see every dance step, every subtle twist of a wrist, every change of expression. Eternal thanks Tari! In the second half, a few of the older Kodo members played the new Odaiko carved from a gnarled piece of tree trunk and prepared especially for this, the 20th Earth Celebration. I'd seen this tree two years ago during my KASA mix training. Kaoru stood in the darkness, his white-clad figure drifting up to stage out of the trees beyond, then stepping up to silence the rumble with his eerie Nohkan. And later, Yatai-bayashi with 8 drummers? C'mon!

The next morning, Miki and I met a couple of Dutch-Aussie retirees who'd been sailing the Pacific for 6 years. They invited us to have coffee on their yacht. Later, we went to join Tamango's rhythm workshop. His talk was amazing, mentioning that rhythm is always in existence but occasionally it uses us as an instrument with which to present it. (This is something I've touched on before in these pages.) He led us through some moves which are similar to how I practice drumming when I don't have a a drum kit, with claps and legslaps and heel-toe taps. At the end, someone asked how he got started and he literally danced us through 200 years of tap history, going an hour over his alotted time. Magic.
Miki spent the rest of the day doing treatments and I wandered about, saying hello to familiar faces and just simply enjoying the vibe. That night, Tari again scored us good seats from which to see one of my heroes, Zakir Hussein. His technique went beyond anything I have seen or could even imagine, and I believe I may have compared his hands to "epileptic spiders."

Sunday morning at EC is a work day for me and once again I was lingering behind the CDs in the shop. I'm supposedly there for translation help, but I spend most of my time instead discussing in Japanese the merits of various Kodo albums. In the past, it was here that I usually met with the guest artists, but this time it was merely Masuda Mio (the fado singer's) grandma. Sweet thing. Miki finished shiatsu around lunchtime so we spent the rest of the day hanging out at the fringe to see various groups (Taiko Tari's taiko troupe being one), going to the onsen, and eating local seafood. That night's show was pretty mindblowing, with all the guests sharing the stage in small permutations, them having a massive cluster jam session at the end. Kaoru, the artist director, was just beaming at the end. The main highlight for me this year, was seeing Ei-chan, a man in his forties, absolutely airborne as he'd heave his head toward the stage during "Lion." To see him keep the same passion for over twenty years brought tears. "熱き思ひ" indeed.

Monday was another workday, with flea market cleanup, and waving at the departing ship. Miki and I joined our new Aussie friends for a swim, then we headed up to Kodo Village for the after party. Ei-chan manned the BBQ again, with other Kodo members and staff hanging around. I chatted mostly with some apprentices this time, mainly with my friend Joe who is in his first year. Aside from the drumming, he's learning alot about himself and has insight at 24 that most people never seem to get. Noticibly absent this year were the other guest musicians, except for Mio who sat quietly in the dark with a couple friends. Exhausted, Miki and I went home early.

Early the next morning, we caught a ride back to Niigata city on our new friends' yacht. The wind ensured a quick ride, but the waves were somewhat high and eating was a risking undertaking. It was a joy to lounge on the deck, feeling the roll of the sea, and the sun on your face. Time was meaningless, the wind and the currents and the planet dictating our schedule. Nearing the harbor, an Italian windsurfer sailed out to chat, then we followed a high speed ferry in. We found that the quake had limited our choices of rides home, so we were forced to shell out for the Shink, first to Tokyo, then back home.


And as August now gives way to September, I read this back and reflect on the lack of art in my life. After the festival, I find I greatly miss the music, not having played a gig in over a year. And the words? They seem to have deserted me in this post. But like cliched swallows, they'll return, as the pace of life once again slows toward autumn. I remind myself that the head is not always the best pilot. Better to let it slide over to ride shotgun and give the heart the controls again.


On the turntable: Bright Eyes, "Letting off the Happiness"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "The Elephant Vanishes"

Bliss

The Adirondack chairs I ordered back in June finally came, a fine perch from where Miki and I sipped good dry red, listened to Chet Baker blow smooth, and watched the clouds go through their burlesque routine, allowing peeks at an eclipse on the wane, maroon shadow peeling slowly across the face of the big bright late summer moon.


On the turntable: "St. Germain des Pres Cafe"
On the nighttable: James Michener, "The Drifters"

Setting a pic: "The Taos that Can be Named"

Sunday papers: Swami Sivananda

"When one forgets himself, God appears to him as the universe. When one is established in one's own self, the universe appears as God."

--Bliss Divine


On the turntable: The Fixx, "Reach the Beach"
On the nighttable: Chie Nakane, "Japanese Society"

Plucked Plum

Damp grey tapestry torn away. The sky over the hills an incredible dark shade of blue. With it comes the heat, my cycling form a clothed sprinkler.


On the turntable: Black Sabbath, "The Mob Rules"
On the nighttable: George MacDonald Fraser, "Flashman at the Charge"

Moonwatcher

Sunday papers: Okakura Kakuzo

"[The] rush and struggle of modern civilization give no opportunity for the leisure required for the crystallization of ideas"



On the turntable: The Nightwatchman, "One Man Revolution"
On the nighttable: Eckhart Tolle, "The Power of Now"

Same as it Ever Was

Back in Japan a week. The rain has finally stopped but the smell of mold permeates. The famous Kyoto festival, Gion Matsuri, has come and gone. Miki and I didn't see any of it this year, our nights ending early, sleepiness brought on by the Malachi Crunch of jetlag and high humidity. Last Sunday was my birthday party at Bosom. (I usually don't make a big deal of my own birthday--I mean, what are we really celebrating? The fact that I didn't die last year? But forty is special.) We'd thought we'd bring the whole party downtown to continue the festivities, but the food and conversation was good, and the gang lingered til late. During the day, Miki and I avoided downtown altogether, until late Tuesday when the Yamaboko parade was finished. We bicycle slalomed around the yukata-clad dregs, and had coffee on the terrace of Sanjo Starbucks, (it's the location, stupid) overlooking a Kamogawa running full and fast. I notice that the usually massive desserts have been reduced by a third. (Down Size Me?) Later at our own small gathering for two, we accidentally encountered a small parade which ran in front of our Merry Island sidewalk table.

A couple days later, the election trucks are making the rounds in full squeal. In a nice twist, a small group of Communist Party supporters make their way up our hill on foot, yelling the name of their candidate through little plastic megaphones. A nice respite for the ears, and I especially appreciate the symbolic support for CO2 emissions reduction in this, the city that spawned the Protocol.



On the turntable: Bjork, "Unplugged"

When the Music's Over

From the hillsides,
Cicada sing an elegy
For themselves


On the turntable: "Closed on Account of Rabies: Poems and Tales of Edgar Allan Poe"
On the nighttable: George Hurchalla, "Going Underground: American Punk 1979-92"

Setting a pic: "Last Call"

Sunday papers: Rumi

"I go into the Muslim mosque and the Jewish synagogue and the Christian church and I see one altar."


On the turntable: Talking Heads, "Remain in Light"
On the nighttable: James Sydney, "The Warrior's Path"

SW notes

I've been back in Kyoto more than 48 hours and it hasn't stopped raining yet. The trees lining this valley have begun to dance, and the sky is lit the Kleig light color of a Hollywood premiere. Translation: a typhoon is on the way.
Let's return to drier climes...


Miki flies in for a weekend in Phoenix, which consists mainly of swimming off jetlag. Mike and Holly live on the outskirts of the city, so the desert is close. I had wanted to climb some of the nearby hills, but it is 113 (45C) degrees most of the time. We hit the Heard Museum to escape the heat, wandering the pots and kachinas made by those who traditionally had no recourse to AC, here set far too high. One morning we take a short walk, but the sun exhausts us. The local wildlife is far heartier, and surprisingly prevalent.

After a few days, we drive north. We hit Jerome first, a former ghost town now remade as an artist colony. This small town's two roads run parallel to and above each other on the hillside. I seem to remember fewer shops here. We've left the car in front of a mountain shop. I spy an old-school rucksack in the window. I picture it on the back of one my heroes. The owner has glasses that fold back like the doors of a Delorean. He immediately comments on my Japan-made pack, on my shoes. I respect how he knows his trade.

We pass through Sedona without stopping, merely admire the interesting rocks outside town. Not stopping here has become the norm. I had once intended to, fifteen years ago, but fell asleep on a nearby stream bed instead, spending the day in slumber. Today, we move up though Red Rock Canyon, gorgeous in all its twists and turns.

A brief passage along I-40, outrunning the trucks on this high, flat desert. We turn off onto Navajo land, long straightaways broken only by towns vaguely familiar from Hillerman novels. The Hopi have windier roads, and slightly nicer homes. Nothing at all prepares us for Canyon de Chelly. We do the only hike we're allowed, down to White House. Through small overhangs and along the sandy floor of the canyon. Miki and I stand awhile in the silence, neither of us willing or able to break it. In this silence we agree that the day's journey is done. We need to sleep someplace close, give ourselves to the magic of the place. We lean against the cliff face, feel the warmth trapped in rock. Above us, the moon has risen over the canyon wall, a familiar Ansel Adams image that startles in color. On the climb up, we are surprised at the multiple groups of twos and threes heading down this late in the day. Navajo on an evening walk. A few homes are on the floor of the canyon and I wonder if the inhabitants curse or embrace their isolation.

A short drive takes us to Spider Rock. I tell Miki the legend, or at least the version I know. We had been told by an English couple that some bears had been seen heading this way. We once again stand in quiet, but are soon joined by a preteen girl and her parents. I hear a noise echo up from the valley, and stain to hear but why won't that kid stop her horrid singing? I quickly tell Miki to listen, and that finally stops the singing and her parents' scolding. Bear? I hear the sound again. A cow...

The next morning we stand upon the North Rim. We've definitely timed this well. Sunset on the South, sunrise on the North, the opposite wall lit golden red to reveal all the details, yet none of the mystery. Again, we are moved by the silence. Again, it takes us awhile to move away. At our next stop too we find we have the place to ourselves. But returning to the car we're startled to see a lone guy by the empty carpark, selling his wares. Where'd he come from? As we drive away I look back but he's gone. Skinwalker?

We drive north, the sun once again on the right side of Miki's face. Tall buttes begin to build toward Monument Valley proportions. At Four Corners we take cheesy photos, amused by the old German who gets angry when people exceed the limit of two on the small platform which overlooks the large overturned dinner plate that marks the point. We walk the shops on the perimeter and I wonder how they work out the sales tax here. Drive on through a stretch of desert that seems especially large and empty and hot due to the fact that we have little gas. We smile as a casino looms us, at least until we notice the price at the pumps. Nearby is Pueblo, CO. A guy I knew back in college had been thrilled to have escaped from here. Nearby Mesa Verde would be a highlight I suppose, but it has been whitewashed by multiple years of summer wildfires. (A decade back, I'd flown to Cheju-do in order to climb Korea's highest mountain. A km from the summit I'd been disappointed to find that the peak was closed for 8 years (!) in order to let nature regroup. Now I can appreciate the logic.) Miki and I didn't linger long, turned off by the busy roads and crowded trails. But I was really moved by the sight of a girl with two false legs, pulling herself up and down the ladder into the kiva. Nature, human or otherwise, always prevails.

On the drive out, I pass on double yellow, then far exceed the speed limit, but a cop chooses to stop the car in front of me instead. Somebody smiles on me today. Miki takes the wheel and fulfills her dream of driving in New Mexico. The road shoots straight south through the red earth upon which Shiprock sails. We are forced to take the freeway again. I-40 epitomizes why I hate the interstate. Too many trucks, plus construction every ten miles. NM has adopted the annoying "Safety Corridor," where fines are doubled. Are they that hard up for cash? Something has to pay for all the orange barrels I guess.

Leave the highway again. We race a freight train toward a crossing, in true '70s TV style. An hour later we arrive...



On the turntable: "Music from Glastonbury The Film"
On the nighttable: Jason Flores-Williams, "The End of the West"

Return to the Womb?

I come back to a house that is dark, wet, and cramped. A palace by Japanese standards, it seems tiny after weeks in the sprawling American homes of my friends. Worse, it smells like the shower room of an indoor swimming pool. I'm a veteran of over a dozen summers here, yet a return to the height of rainy season after weeks in the dry West feels like a plunge. This morning, it took multiple attempts to light a stick of incense, which refused to stand up straight in ash packed tight by moisture. Where's Spongebob when I need him?

On the turntable: Bjork, "Volta"
On the nighttable: Robert Ward, "Shedding Skin"

A Taylor looks at 40

Forty years ago today, Newark, NJ was in flames. Across the river in Manhatten, I took my first breath. Haven't stopped yet...

On the turntable: Jimmy Buffet, "A1A"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "Birthday Stories"

Setting a pic: "Mourning Wood"

Sunday papers: Albert Einstein

"You cannot solve problems with the way of thinking that led to their creation."

On the turntable: Isis, "In the Absence of Truth"
On the nighttable: Henri-Pierre Roche, "Jules and Jim"

Setting a pic: "Laughing Boy"

Sunday papers: Junot Diaz

"Once somebody gets a little escape velocity going on, ain't no play in the world that will keep them from leaving."


On the turntable: "Shakti Fusion"
On the nighttable: Davy Rothbart, "The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas"

NE Sketches

VERMONT
We've descended on this small town like the Invasion of the Prana People.

Once again, I find myself unable to understand the newest uses of English--last of my tribe.

Watching pigeons chase each other around; animal courtship is like third graders--pinches, nips, and hair pulls.

Schoolbus passes by, each window filled with an unhappy face.

A company truck for a shredding company; has it really come to this?

A feline called "Pissy Cat."

Summer breeze and long shadows define the summer evenings of my youth.


CHICAGO
My deaf seatmate on the plane lipreads the DVD on my laptop.

The gentle curves of the Great Lakes like a woman, like a cello.

O'Hare's ethnic diversity startles after weeks in white Vermont

A young dude's pants pulled so low in back that you can almost hear the wind whistling through the asscrack.

Descent into Phoenix heat like bumping down stairs on your behind.


On the turntable: Big Black, "Hammer Party"
On the nighttable: Aaron Cometbus, "Chicago Stories"

Sunday papers: W.S. Bach

"The problem is not finding them, it's--when getting up in the morning and getting out of bed--not stepping on them."

--Bach on his melodies

On the turntable: The Chieftains, "Long Black Veil"
On the nighttable: "Absolutely Zippo Anthology"

Setting a pic: "Vittles"

Sunday papers: Isadora Duncan

"If I could tell you what it meant, there would be point in dancing it."

--Duncan on her art

On the turntable: The Shins, "Wincing the Night Away"
On the nighttable: Ken Wilbur, "Boomeritis"

An Open Letter to Kerouac

Dear Ti Jean,

I finally made it. I write these words in the town of your birth, the town where you eternally rest. I'd like to say I hitched here, or rode a freight, or even "did the dog" (Greyhound--I think they were around when you were) but I came in under my own power, in that car I rented so I can tool around the green roads of Vermont. Even my lodging feels a copout--I struggled with staying in some fleabag digs closer to your spirit, but settled on a large comfortable place vivisected from the carcass of one of those old riverfront mills you successfully escaped lifetime employment in. Not only did this put me in the center of Lowell proper, but I figured you'd appreciate the Buddhist reincarnation/Catholic resurrection motif.

You'd hardly recognize Lowell. Your birthplace duplex on Lupine is for rent. The neighborhood seems neat, comfortable, no doubt a far cry from when you knew it in the Depression. In fact, all of Centralville seems a nice place to live. The native French speakers have either assimilated or moved on. Spanish is lingua franca now. In fact, St. Louis church seems a misnomer--San Luis would be a better fit. The house where you lost Gerard has a nice, cheerful flag out front. A boy was playing nearby. He looked about 9.

Pawtucket today would make you lost. They've changed most of the street names. The tar sidewalks down by Moody Street bridge has been replaced, and the Textile Lunch has gone through many hands. The 1971 photos in the Gifford book and the ones 20 years later in Dorfner show different names, and it is different yet again today, thought the boards in the window tell me that no food has been made there in quite some time. And the balconies that frightened you so much are gone, as are the doors leading to them. At the other end of Moody St bridge, the place that scarred/scared you so when you saw the watermelon man drop dead, now houses a fortune teller. The bridge itself moans when you drive over it. Spooky stuff even for an adult. The nearby Stations of the Cross, and the Grotto haven't changed at all. They look just as you described them in Dr Sax. And the Merrimack River beyond, has the same power, the same beauty. I'm tempted to say like a woman, but then again, you always liked your women malleable, didn't you? Well, except for Memare.

I wanna drink a beer to you but the bar at the hotel is noisy. They're showing a Sox game on the TV, and the Yankees are winning a lot these days. There are few things louder than a group of unhappy men. So I take a beer to my room, and look out the window. The warehouses are slowly darkening red, and the old neon sign came on over the Sun newspaper building. It looks like it was probably there when you were writing for them. And the horizon is all aglow now, revealling only the old things, the steeples and smokestacks that once gave this town life...

It's morning now Ti Jean. I walk the red downtown streets. it's a gorgeous day, the bricks growing plump and warm in the sun. I doubt you'd see much here that you know, the whole place is a maze of gentrification. Upscale shops are housed on the ground level of all the old factories lining the canals. Your fellaheen seem to have been priced out. It's nice though, clean, spacious. One narrow path itself is a work of art--sculptures grow from the grass, hang from the trees. Hand-cranked scroll poems along the Eastern Canal. Your own words hang from a banner at your old high school. The clock where you wrote about waiting for Maggie Cassidy stills hangs out front, but the hands are frozen at a time that's no longer there. I walk the bricks, walk the bricks. I'm desperate for pancakes, but can't find any in the modern cafes. I'm about to give up but then I spy Paradise Diner near the tracks. A stack and refillable coffee for 4 bucks! I cross the street to the Commemorative they've built for you, to read your words off the marble pillars. I sit in the middle of them, listening to a landscape crew BS about girls and last night's game. Your words on black marble parallel the black ink tracing my own thoughts across Japanese washi.

I walk to the Boont Hills Museum. A few days ago, looking for info about Lowell, I saw that they're going to put your "On the Road" scroll on display. At the museum, I find that the exhibit won't be open until tonite. The people I see leaving the building are media. So I exaggerate my KJ credentials and somehow bluff myself into the press conference. The mayor of Lowell is there. I can't remember the name, probably a family you know, but it may as well be Quimby, for the accent. A couple other dignitaries give a few words in your honor. I wonder how square you'd find all this. Or perhaps you'd just smile sagelike and keep silent. But c'mon Jack, the local university has given you a PhD this month, fer crissake. The system you and Allen tried to shake awake has taken you as one of theirs. But they do put on a good show. I watch as the caretaker unrolls the scroll, then weighs it down with thin strips of plastic. He explains that the first time they closed the case, the static caused it to levitate. You always were surrounded by ghosts, Jack. And many of those ghosts were on display there in the photos with you. I'm sure you would have been amused, especially the part about how you wrote the book in 3 weeks fueled by "caffeine." Caffeine? Bennies, wasn't it? On the way out I chat with the mayor briefly, then walk outside to follow the path along the Merrimack, laughing all the way. Life can be so wonderful and hilarious.

South of town I stop at your grave. I've brought nothing--no port, no flowers--but I do have a song. I play my flute, sitting awhile among the notes and bits of broken glass, on earth made bare of grass by the many who have come to pay tribute to you--who honored life.

So long, Jack...




On the turntable: Dave Brubeck Quartet, "Time Further Out"

State O'Maine

I awake under the gaze of Victorian women long dead. Breakfast with the B&B owner I haven't met yet. He tells me a couple guys from Kyoto were here a few days back. I walk through the still sleeping town to the Marginal Way trail. I remember now how good it feels to walk. The trail winds before huge homes fortified somewhat against winter storms. Benches offer places to gaze at the Atlantic, but they all have plaques dedicating them to those who died on her temperamental waters. At the trail's far end I have a coffee, then head back to the car. I walk again soon after, along the ameoba-shaped trail of Rachel Carson State Park. All is quiet here, but for the creek of tall maples and the near silent spring of chipmunks on the trail. I stop awhile, watching a flotilla of black-headed geese cruise the perimeter of the marsh. I'm comfortable here, in an ecosystem familiar from my childhood. But there's more to see...

I follow Route 9 north awhile, twisting through beach towns with varied faces. Past homes of old wood and peeling paint. Many of these places date from early Tokugawa times. I arrive at Pine Point where I'd hoped to swim, but the temperature is a holdover from March. I feel like I've arrived at a party too early. I walk into the surf until the water reached my knees. My head is willing but I'm outnumbered two-to-one by my legs. No way. I get in the car again and move south. I'm in New Hampshire for all of 30 minutes. That's how long the coastline is. NH beaches seem to be a well kept secret, even from the locals. They are relatively unspoiled and undeveloped, when one can actually see them behind the low concrete walls or piles of gravel.

Then I'm in Massachussetts. I've already noticed that the driver's absolutely deserve the reputation they have. I just want to mention that that thing sticking out from the steering wheel is to let people know when you're going to turn. Go ahead try it. It moves up and down. Mass people seem to me to be the most unhappy in New England. And the most conservative. Correlation?

Here I'll spend a couple days....



On the turntable: Dizzy Gillespie, "Birk's Works"

New Hamp Hump

I'd been in Bristol for twelve days. We've been studying Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy, stress the therapy part over the yoga part. As amazing as it is, half of our training is receiving the technique from someone else in the workshop. So, basically, I've gone through two therapy sessions a day, for twelve days. I've no therapy experience whatsoever, and this is more therapy than the majority of human beings get in their lifetime. All this poking and prodding had left me fried, both physically and emotionally.

So with three days off I decided to roam. Through a sheer accident of serendipity, my brother Eric was camped out twenty minutes south of Bristol. He coaches a cross country team in Indiana, and was driving the boys around the Northeast in a Winnebago , camping and running. I hung out with them for a mosquito-filled night and morning. Then I pushed on east.

Through the Green Mountains along the Middlebury Gap. Incredible rivers butt their white heads into boulders. Trees like pine cones, trees like bristles. I startle a young moose on the road. He doesn't seem to know which way to go and lingers on an apparently well-used deer trail, looking back at me. He seems nervous and mama must be nearby. I get back in my car and point it east again. Stalking rivers through wild and calm, over high iron bridges, measuring their limbs. Vermont magic ends. Crossing into New Hampshire, I remember that I'm in the States. The road cuts through forest in a broad swathe, leading to quaint villages and small terminal cities, in both senses of the word. The downtowns appear to be rotting, the empty shops lining both sides of the main street. The remaining shops try to catch up with the outside world, for better or worse. One restaurant has Korean, Japanese, AND Thai food. Just outside the city limits I see the stripmalls and fast food chains. Walmart may as well be holding a smoking gun. Ironically, I'm currently traveling the Daniel Webster Highway, but it appears that in this version, the Devil wins.

I move through a maze of tall trees which hide perspective. The low clouds and creepy vibe of CocoRosie on the CD further enhances the telescope effect. I'm hungry and looking for a small mom and pop place, but all I see is pizza joints. Pizza is my favorite food, so the amazing exclusion of anything else feels like something from a Buddhist parable. Pizza Karma. Make me one with everything.

I ride on, cruising the New Hampshire mountain tops, past hillsides awash in rape and lavender, past lakes of impossible blue. The road straightens out alongside Lake Winnipesaukee . The view is magnificent. This massive body of water is punctuated with small islands, each dotted with small cottages. I think "Matsushima Ya," but ya's pronunciation is closer to Stephen King than to Basho. I'm looking for a place to eat on the water, but the few that appear are more bar-types, and each has dozens of motorcyles in their lots. I'd noticed the "biker's welcome" signs in front of many restaurants and motels, and probably passed a few hundred hogs along this stretch. There is obviously a Run happening this week here. It's not that they intimidate me as much as I'm practicing simple martial arts-inspired avoidence of potential hot spots. Entering a den of drunk rowdy bikers doesn't make for a mellow break from the road. The number of bikes is incredible and the majority are the big beautiful American make. Lots of polished chrome--if the sun were out the glare would be intense. Choppers still trump all and turn the heads of all the other riders. I'm flanked by bikers for a couple hours. The low "gata gata gata gata" rumble is like the presence of a small insect; not annoying, just present. By Maine they'll be gone.

I'd never been to Maine before and had looked forward to this part of the trip. Somehow, I missed the sign marking the border, and immediately became lost. I knew the road on which I travelled lead north, but I rode on, trusting fate to lead me somewhere interesting. The road narrowed, the trees hemmed in, the forest darkened. I followed this grey line until the trees stopped.

That place is Ogunquit, in a gorgeous Victorian B&B called the Yellow Monkey, a place chosen for the name's ironic value. About an hour after checking in, I notice that most of the others staying here are young, handsome, and male. I quickly realize that I've accidently picked a place which lodges these "confirmed bachelors." I'd forgotten that there is a large gay community here, and the gentle care in which the kind owner checked me in should have been a hint. And the way he mentioned that the jacuzzi was clothing optional...
I read awhile on the balcony, then go up the road for the lobster I'd long looked forward to. But I don't remember how to eat one. I tear in the way the Japanese eat crab, tearing and sucking, horrifying the neighboring tables and my server. Blame the wine...


On the turntable: Rusted Root, "When I Woke"

Setting a pic: "Kamataki Kween"

Sunday papers: Warner Herzog

“Those who watch television, lose the world, and those who read, gain it.”


On the turntable: "Smoke Signals" (sdtk)
On the nighttable: Junot Diaz, "Drown"

Notes on the Road to Vermont

A roundabout path takes me to Nagoya airport. I always think of this as Japan's Chicago, and from here I'm to fly directly to the American original. But then I'm told I have to change in SFO. Wha? I intentionally came all this way to avoid that. Despite my travel walla's major error, I shrug my own big shoulders, deciding to forget it with coffee and blueberry cheesecake. The first forkful drops onto my khakis. I'll wear this purple stigmata for the next 30 hours.

The High Sierra's absolutely snow-capped, despite a calendar nudging June.

From the speakers in O'Hare, Orwell's disembodied voice reminds me of the recent Orange Alert. I keep my eyes open but see no fruit at all. As I await my next flight, an Indian guy sits next to me and proceeds to talk on his cell phone in Hindi. A trio of short hairs eyes him with slight frowns, then one of them exemplifies US foreign policy perfectly by launching into a story of the cremation he witnessed in Baghdad during his recent tour.

The sun setting twice on the 29th of May; once over the Pacific , again over Lake Eire.

Jet-lag makes me feel shrink-wrapped.

I'm feeling more disconnected from the US this time around. It's been two years but feels like twenty.

The usual good times in CT, despite sleepless nights and tormented stomach. A massive thunderstorm triggers an electrical frenzy of thoughts in an already sleep-deprived mind.

Drive north. New England greatly resembles its aponymous older sibling in its churches and town names. Though thankfully without the crap weather. I laugh aloud at some signs-- "Worship in Canaan," "Mexi-Canaan," "Willies Weiner Wagon". On two occasions, I spy a driver in the midst of a tremendous fit behind the wheel. Closer approach reveals arm waving usually seen in a rap video. Another tragic Drive-by Shouting. Ignoring these references to the present century I drive on, thru towns older than the country.

Finally arrive in the town where I'll spend a few weeks. I look up the town's main street. How'd I wind up in Sicily, Alaska?



On the turntable: Los Romeros, "Spanish Guitar Favorites"
On the nighttable: Blake Morrison, "And when did you last see your father?"

Setting a pic: "Clear, hyun hyun"

Sunday papers: Richard Ford

"There is no cynicism like lifelong self-love and the tunnel vision in which you yourself are all that's visible at the tunnel's end."

--The Sportswriter


On the turntable: Jimmy Reed, "Live at Carnegie Hall"
On the nighttable: Gary Snyder, " Look Out!"

World in Union

This year, the month of May was composed of the elements.

The gold of Golden Week was more the amber of fire, four near sleepless days of feeding wood into a kiln ablaze, tempering pliable clay into the hardness of form. Miki and I in a remote valley in Ishikawa, high above the sea, surrounded by road crumbed in a recent powerful quake. There were a couple dozen of us here, refugees against the usual holiday madness, half taking part in a course on zen, the rest feeding the fire. At ten minute intervals we'd thrust arms elbow deep into the blaze, pushing toward the hoped for 1250 degrees C. We'd work a few hours, sleep a few, work a few more. There was a primal feel to this pace, far from the usual "8's" of sleep and workaday world. Time retreated to that which existed before the parallels of rails brought about the circular paths of clocktime. Meals and sleep too, became arbitrary, making room for conversation borne of silence, and dance borne of sound. I'd take my leave occasionally, a brief respite from the "we" of my adopted home, to the "me" of my birth culture, yet clinging still to the words and the music by reading my books on Japanese jazz.

During its last weekend, May took the form of earth. At the Moon (夢雲) Gallery, deep in the wilds of Nara, Ezaki Mitsuru (江崎満) displayed his forms which we'd midwived in fire. Surrounded by hills and trees, we again broke from civilized clock time, too distracted by food grown in the surrounding soil, and in the "salt of the earth" conversation, if I may be allowed to further spur on the metaphor.

Those May days between were a waltz between wind and water, gentle breezes under flawless skies begot rainstorms of sudden fury and violence.

And ether? Through this I passed, defying physics for 24 hours. Here too, clock time once again was lost as the darkness of night lasted a few brief hours, and the sun set twice in the same "day", once over the Pacific, and again over Lake Eire.

And now, entering the void of mu here in the States, not so much a figure moving through space like in my usual travels, but more as a hole in the tapestry; both a part of this space (at least in my role as an American), yet separate from it. Time again looping, looping, into a mobius strip of the man I am and the boy I was, finding it impossible to co-exist...



On the turntable: Kiri Te Kanawa, "Kiri!"
On the nighttable: Doris Grumbach, "Fifty Days of Solitude"