After I left Montreal, it was if someone hit the Fast Forward button, and the next two weeks passed at great speed. Montreal is only a couple hours to Vermont, but in this narrow strip I met a girl who had no English and spoke French in a dialect which made no sense to me whatsoever. My next encounter went little better. The official at the border crossing with New York state was a true prick, a real standout in his profession. The way he sneered at my having been in Canada was filled with a malice toward any American who had the nerve to want to leave his fine land. I thought about how the first impression most foreigners have of the US is formed while dealing with guys like him. Little wonder we are so hated abroad. A beer and a walk in Burlington did well to calm me.
That night began my 5th and final week in Bristol. I felt I edged down what felt like two paths superimposed on one another: one of much-needed technical PRYT training, the other an intensely personal journey of pain and self-discovery. Elizabeth Gilbert's book weaved in and out, making up my nighttime reading and lending bits of wisdom eerily related to what I was experiencing during the day. I finished the week drained but strangely elated. During the downtime, I took my seat at the bar of the Bobcat or in one of the Adirondack chairs out front of the bakery, my face turned toward the sun rising over the hills at the end of Main Street.
My five weeks in the East came to an end on a clear day when I flew down to Raleigh. My plane looked down on the magnificent colors below, giving way to mountain ranges further south, laid out in parallel rows like berms. The next few days were spent at the house of my sister and her family. I have bad luck with the weather in Raleigh, and this town which had been facing severe drought got a third of its needed rain in five days of thunderstorms which oddly reflected the ice storms of my previous visit. I only left the house twice. Pete had scored center-ice, fourth row tickets for a Carolina rout of the Buffalo Sabres. This was pure Americana for me--a high speed, in-your-face event where the potential for violence was imminent. Not being a hockey fan, and holding no familiarity to the local team, I had a moment where I shut down completely due to lack of a fixed reference. This happens sometimes when I go back to the States, a reminder that being Lost in Translation can also work in reverse. Oddly enough the reference I did have (besides the end-of-empire, Roman bloodlust, crowd mentality thing) was that I followed the action in how I related it to soccer. Which just goes to show just how internationalized this lifelong basketball fan has become.
The next morning Meghan and I had breakfast in the brick downtown of Raleigh. It was the total Southern package, grits and bad coffee served up by waitresses who call you "Hon." Around an adjacent table, four suited (no seersuckers unfortunately) bigwigs were having a power brekkie, casually going over the day's biz, before reworking it back at the office. One guy was a figure of incredible girth, and another had a thick growth of bangs which hung down his face like a beaver's tail. A hundred Southern book- and film-characters danced in my mind.
I spent the last weekend in Monterey with Ben-chan. The flight over looked down on the Sierra's covered with fresh snow, bringing me full circle to May and those same peaks slowly going topless for summer. On the drive down from SFO, I took the wrong exit, leading me up over a high pass to startle a deer on the side of the road, waiting to cross. The next day, Ben and I drove down to Big Sur, stopping in at the Henry Miller library and for a quick peek at Esalen. We also got in a couple hikes, one up above the redwoods onto trails lined with mesquite and poison oak. Another trail led through high grass to a beach of stones, driftwood, and kelp strands thick as bungee cords. Sunday, we alternately biked along the shore to a popular surf break, then back through Cannery Row. Commercialism has whitewashed the place, making it now unrecognizable from Steinbeck books or my last visit 21 yeas back. The history is completely gone, the factories serving little purpose but to bilk tourist dollars. May as well call it Chicanery row now. Downtown Monterey was nicer, rust-colored tiles over bleached Spanish walls. Though I rarely miss Santa Barbara, being back on the Central Coast made me frequently reminisce about my three years there. A nice warm-fuzzy ending to a long, meandering year of journeys.
Once again I found myself on a plane. Once again I lost a day. The train took me through Osaka, all bright and neon and looking quite CG after the truer colors of New England autumn. (How much nicer to re-enter this hideously ugly city at night!) This train took me to Paul and Marla's three hour yoga workshop, which I somehow survived despite my ragged condition. But like all the other days, I always know that there's a warm bed at the end, even if I don't know where that bed is.
Good night.
On the turntable: The Replacements, "All Shook Down"
On the nighttable: Mo Yan, "Big Breasts and Wide Hips"
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Sunday papers: Henry Miller
"It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the world--it's the American way of looking at things"
On the turntable: Joe Jackson, "Look Sharp!"
On the nighttable: Seta Jeter Naslund, "Ahab's Wife"
On the turntable: Joe Jackson, "Look Sharp!"
On the nighttable: Seta Jeter Naslund, "Ahab's Wife"
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunday papers: Bruce Chatwin
"Religion is a travel guide for settlers."
On the turntable: Yo Yo Ma, "Classic Yo Yo"
On the nighttable: Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Love, Pray"
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Ca et La
Friday morning, I pointed the nose of my car north and followed it. It was a dreary day, less like rain and more like driving thru slow moving water. The first few hours were dull, moving along roads hemmed in by trees and the low clouds like a lid on top of it all. Around noon, I finally reached the Acadia Peninsula, which branches off from Miramichi, a city with a Japanese sounding name and supposedly good fly fishing. I stopped in a small diner for lunch. Inside, the old timers were speaking French and an equal number of younger men in muddy boots spoke an English that was so thickly Canadian that it was almost a parody. The waitresses flowed freely between both. I read a few of the French flyers by the door, then moved on. Signs in French began growing in prominence until out by Caraquet where English was badly outnumbered. As I followed the coast, the sky cleared just enough to reveal the high peaks of the Gaspe Peninsula out across the bay. I crossed into Quebec and cut across the peninsula, finding myself suddenly in an Alaskan landscape of thick wooded hills and rushing streams. The only distinct "back east" touches were the centuries old wooden bridges that spanned them. I was literally driving into fall. Down in Maine, the maples were still yellow, and the orange leaves didn't appear until the Bay of Fundy. Up here, the birch trees had already shed their colors to take on a light gray. From a distance, a mountainscape seemed streaked in a way that resembled the alarming recent changes of my chin stubble. In Quebec, I'd gained an hour, but this far east, not any daylight, so at the coast I called it a night. I stayed in Matane, a town I liked for its Japanese pun of a name. As I ate pasta laced with the region's famous shrimp, the winds coming off the St. Lawrence River shook the restaurant. I barely felt it, my body still vibrating from an 11-hour drive.
I set off the next morning before dawn, driving away from a sun just rising. The streets were empty and none of the houses had any lights on. I played connect the dots with the small beach towns out this way, then crested a foggy which is the last of the Gaspe mountains. On the far side the hills dropped to parallel the shoreline, creating a long flat valley containing a chain of beautiful little farm towns. The rain stopped for awhile, bringing a sliver of blue to the sky which added color to an otherwise black and white day. Unfortunately it didn't last. I followed the farms to Quebec City, where I crossed over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The sky dropped again and erased the view. I followed the highway toward Montreal.
Once in town, I contacted my friend Yvon, who directed me to his house in the northern part of the city. I'd met Yvon at PRYT training back in June, he being the only male besides me. When the rest of the group commented on our bravery, we two males venturing into areas more familiar to women, I countered that Yvon was the truly brave one. I'd been sipping the spiritual waters since university, yet he'd been a CEO of a successful company until the day he'd had an epiphany which led him to gradually shed 50 years of conditioning. He was currently working to bring yoga into the boardroom where he felt it was most needed. This weekend he was out at his country house, but I had free reign of his place in the city. I dropped off my stuff, then walked over to Outremont, following the streets around. The rain had stopped and the weather was perfect for a stroll. High brownstones lined the sidestreets, many with bicycles on the metal fire escapes. The main avenues were a mix of New England town and Paris boulevard, bizarrely perfect in their balance. A few streets over, the neighborhood grew rougher and hints of immigrant populations began to appear, in the form of Greek delis and Lebanese restaurants. Orthodox Jewish children walked in front of one of the three sushi bars on this street. I had dinner in a bistro specializing in mussels, then finished off with coffee at Second Cup, across from a movie theatre which screens French films. In both places, the staff approached me in French, then switched easily to a nearly unaccented English. I sat awhile reading in the front window table until it grew dark. I'd driven eighteen hours in two days and was exhausted.
I awoke early again, and walked through the silent streets past huge homes until I found a series of hiking trails up Mont Royal. A series of switchbacks gave way to a side trail which led into the Catholic cemetery. Looking around I realized that I was surrounded by the graves of children, each stone fronted by stuffed animals or toy cars. Why today of all days? On this date five years before, I'd lost my own son. I gave myself over to grief and cried for a good long time. I wandered the graves awhile, passing rows of markers of those who'd died in the 1950s. Spouses were buried together, and I couldn't fathom how it would feel to outlive your spouse by decades. Other graves were separated by ethnic group. The Chinese had the best spot, up at the top of the hill with a view of the Olympic Park to the west. Nearby I found a narrow path over to Mont Royal itself, with the main part of Montreal spread before me. I wandered down to the gothic stone spires of McGill College, then into the city itself. Down on Rue St. Catherine, I noticed three Natives laughing as they looked into a shop selling Inuit goods. Wearing backpacks and clad as hunters, they looked out of a cliched film about simple natives set loose in the big city, surrounded by well-classed tourists in this ritzy part of town. I followed this street until it began to resemble every other North American city with their chain shops and boutiques. I followed the side roads down toward Vieux Montreal and the waterfront.
Crossing into old town was like crossing the street between New York and Paris. The streets narrowed and became cobblestone. There were horse-drawn carriages down here, carrying tourists with blankets across their knees. In one lane, a pigeon feasted on the grain-flecked horse dung left behind. Down another cobblestone lane, one ballsy guy actually rollerbladed. I navigated these streets on a mission to find poutine, that artery hardening pile of gravy coated cheese fries. Ducking in and out of bistros and sandwich shops. I noticed that the latter were all run by Chinese. I finally found poutine in a cafe near Norte Dame, where I later stopped to light a votive candle for Ken-chan. I spent the rest of the morning down here, popping into shops and walking the lanes. On the waterfront, young couples strolled arm-in-arm or stole kisses down alleys. Seeing them made me miss the other half of my own couple, made me really long to waste away a lazy Sunday with her in some romantic setting like this.
A few more turns brought me to Chinatown, its one lane packed with people. Up the hill further was the trendy Latin Quarter, and the nearby Plateau. Down the old hippie haunts of Rue Prince-Arthur into Square St. Louis, where the hippie's offsprung still smoked dope in front of elaborately decorated Victorians. Up Boulevard St. Laurant now, stopping to read and write over coffee at the hip Cafe Popolo. Further up the street I had dinner with a now returned Yvon and his wife, talking Yoga and Zen over Indian curries served up by fussy waiters....
On the turntable: "Bach Meets Cape Breton"
On the nighttable: Tim O'Brien, "Tomcat in Love"
I set off the next morning before dawn, driving away from a sun just rising. The streets were empty and none of the houses had any lights on. I played connect the dots with the small beach towns out this way, then crested a foggy which is the last of the Gaspe mountains. On the far side the hills dropped to parallel the shoreline, creating a long flat valley containing a chain of beautiful little farm towns. The rain stopped for awhile, bringing a sliver of blue to the sky which added color to an otherwise black and white day. Unfortunately it didn't last. I followed the farms to Quebec City, where I crossed over the north shore of the St. Lawrence. The sky dropped again and erased the view. I followed the highway toward Montreal.
Once in town, I contacted my friend Yvon, who directed me to his house in the northern part of the city. I'd met Yvon at PRYT training back in June, he being the only male besides me. When the rest of the group commented on our bravery, we two males venturing into areas more familiar to women, I countered that Yvon was the truly brave one. I'd been sipping the spiritual waters since university, yet he'd been a CEO of a successful company until the day he'd had an epiphany which led him to gradually shed 50 years of conditioning. He was currently working to bring yoga into the boardroom where he felt it was most needed. This weekend he was out at his country house, but I had free reign of his place in the city. I dropped off my stuff, then walked over to Outremont, following the streets around. The rain had stopped and the weather was perfect for a stroll. High brownstones lined the sidestreets, many with bicycles on the metal fire escapes. The main avenues were a mix of New England town and Paris boulevard, bizarrely perfect in their balance. A few streets over, the neighborhood grew rougher and hints of immigrant populations began to appear, in the form of Greek delis and Lebanese restaurants. Orthodox Jewish children walked in front of one of the three sushi bars on this street. I had dinner in a bistro specializing in mussels, then finished off with coffee at Second Cup, across from a movie theatre which screens French films. In both places, the staff approached me in French, then switched easily to a nearly unaccented English. I sat awhile reading in the front window table until it grew dark. I'd driven eighteen hours in two days and was exhausted.
I awoke early again, and walked through the silent streets past huge homes until I found a series of hiking trails up Mont Royal. A series of switchbacks gave way to a side trail which led into the Catholic cemetery. Looking around I realized that I was surrounded by the graves of children, each stone fronted by stuffed animals or toy cars. Why today of all days? On this date five years before, I'd lost my own son. I gave myself over to grief and cried for a good long time. I wandered the graves awhile, passing rows of markers of those who'd died in the 1950s. Spouses were buried together, and I couldn't fathom how it would feel to outlive your spouse by decades. Other graves were separated by ethnic group. The Chinese had the best spot, up at the top of the hill with a view of the Olympic Park to the west. Nearby I found a narrow path over to Mont Royal itself, with the main part of Montreal spread before me. I wandered down to the gothic stone spires of McGill College, then into the city itself. Down on Rue St. Catherine, I noticed three Natives laughing as they looked into a shop selling Inuit goods. Wearing backpacks and clad as hunters, they looked out of a cliched film about simple natives set loose in the big city, surrounded by well-classed tourists in this ritzy part of town. I followed this street until it began to resemble every other North American city with their chain shops and boutiques. I followed the side roads down toward Vieux Montreal and the waterfront.
Crossing into old town was like crossing the street between New York and Paris. The streets narrowed and became cobblestone. There were horse-drawn carriages down here, carrying tourists with blankets across their knees. In one lane, a pigeon feasted on the grain-flecked horse dung left behind. Down another cobblestone lane, one ballsy guy actually rollerbladed. I navigated these streets on a mission to find poutine, that artery hardening pile of gravy coated cheese fries. Ducking in and out of bistros and sandwich shops. I noticed that the latter were all run by Chinese. I finally found poutine in a cafe near Norte Dame, where I later stopped to light a votive candle for Ken-chan. I spent the rest of the morning down here, popping into shops and walking the lanes. On the waterfront, young couples strolled arm-in-arm or stole kisses down alleys. Seeing them made me miss the other half of my own couple, made me really long to waste away a lazy Sunday with her in some romantic setting like this.
A few more turns brought me to Chinatown, its one lane packed with people. Up the hill further was the trendy Latin Quarter, and the nearby Plateau. Down the old hippie haunts of Rue Prince-Arthur into Square St. Louis, where the hippie's offsprung still smoked dope in front of elaborately decorated Victorians. Up Boulevard St. Laurant now, stopping to read and write over coffee at the hip Cafe Popolo. Further up the street I had dinner with a now returned Yvon and his wife, talking Yoga and Zen over Indian curries served up by fussy waiters....
On the turntable: "Bach Meets Cape Breton"
On the nighttable: Tim O'Brien, "Tomcat in Love"
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Eastern Edges
Halifax. My friend Marcin, (who you may remember from our Kyoto adventures) was living here now, teaching at the local university. The morning after I arrived, we had breakfast at the hip Blower's Paper Chase cafe, then walked around the city and along the waterfront. After beers at Garrison brewery, we had lunch at the old Henry House, then drove out to Peggy Cove to hop along the huge granite stones of the shoreline. The sea beyond was teeming. The heads of seals bobbed just offshore, sharing their meal with the seabirds who would dive into the frigid water from great heights. Further out were the fountains of spray of a pod of whales migrating south along the coast. Incredible. Back in town, we chilled out a bit at Cabin Coffee amidst the lounge music and powerful scent of maple. That night was band practice. I met the other three members of the group--all Japanese. Within seconds my body language and style of speaking changed. It is amazing how at home I am in Japanese culture, and how it, not my native North American culture surrounding it, dictates how I act. Rehearsal was fun, watching them run thru some pieces with flute, taiko, and voice. The last hour or so I joined in for a jam session. Later were the obligatory beers.
The next day I was solo. I had a quick swim in a waterfront pool open this late in the year due to the warm weather. I spent most of my day zigzagging up and down the hills of Halifax, looking around the Khyber Gallery and the Art School, hanging out at various coffee shops like the Paper Chase and Just Us!, and tripping over the piles of used books in the bookshops. I probably walked every square meter of the city's sidewalk, seeing the same people again and again. Halifax seems to have an overabundance of the dreadlocked and the homeless. My favorite character was this happy-go-lucky guy that seemed like a drifter with his big fuzzy Abbie Hoffman head of hair, who I most often saw begging change, though I once saw him walking with great purpose down a steep hill toward the waterfront. (To buy a beavertail maybe?) That night Marcin and I met up with the Japanese again to go see the performance Drum! The music was terrific, but the message of harmony through music was a tad overdone and somewhat naive. (Ask the indigenous people their opinion, if you can find any.) Later we all went up to Rogue's Roost for Pub Quiz. Walking home past a centuries old graveyard, I couldn't help but think that the hard work of the dead lying there had a direct correlation in my day.
Another cemetery closed out my visit. I'd been to the Maritime Museum the day before and was surprised to find that many of the Titanic's dead had been brought here since Halifax was the closest port to the site of the wreck. On the outskirts of town I found them, about half lying in graves unmarked for nearly a century. The taller stones told tales of valor and duty that no longer exists, which is perhaps just as well since it led to so many fatalities. Heading back to the waterfront, I looked out into the rainy mist and imagine the Titanic rescue ships coming in, bearing horrors yet unknown to the people watching from the shore.
On the turntable: Prem Joshua, "Water down the Ganges"
On the nighttable: Richard Ford, "Women with Men"
The next day I was solo. I had a quick swim in a waterfront pool open this late in the year due to the warm weather. I spent most of my day zigzagging up and down the hills of Halifax, looking around the Khyber Gallery and the Art School, hanging out at various coffee shops like the Paper Chase and Just Us!, and tripping over the piles of used books in the bookshops. I probably walked every square meter of the city's sidewalk, seeing the same people again and again. Halifax seems to have an overabundance of the dreadlocked and the homeless. My favorite character was this happy-go-lucky guy that seemed like a drifter with his big fuzzy Abbie Hoffman head of hair, who I most often saw begging change, though I once saw him walking with great purpose down a steep hill toward the waterfront. (To buy a beavertail maybe?) That night Marcin and I met up with the Japanese again to go see the performance Drum! The music was terrific, but the message of harmony through music was a tad overdone and somewhat naive. (Ask the indigenous people their opinion, if you can find any.) Later we all went up to Rogue's Roost for Pub Quiz. Walking home past a centuries old graveyard, I couldn't help but think that the hard work of the dead lying there had a direct correlation in my day.
Another cemetery closed out my visit. I'd been to the Maritime Museum the day before and was surprised to find that many of the Titanic's dead had been brought here since Halifax was the closest port to the site of the wreck. On the outskirts of town I found them, about half lying in graves unmarked for nearly a century. The taller stones told tales of valor and duty that no longer exists, which is perhaps just as well since it led to so many fatalities. Heading back to the waterfront, I looked out into the rainy mist and imagine the Titanic rescue ships coming in, bearing horrors yet unknown to the people watching from the shore.
On the turntable: Prem Joshua, "Water down the Ganges"
On the nighttable: Richard Ford, "Women with Men"
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
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"
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, October 07, 2007
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"
Friday, October 05, 2007
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"
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"
Thursday, October 04, 2007
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"
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"
Saturday, September 29, 2007
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"
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"
Friday, September 28, 2007
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"
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"
Saturday, September 22, 2007
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"
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"
Friday, September 21, 2007
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"
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"
Monday, September 17, 2007
Sunday, September 16, 2007
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"
On the turntable: The Band, "Across the Great Divide"
Saturday, September 15, 2007
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 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?
Friday, September 14, 2007
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"
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"
Thursday, September 13, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Bright Eyes, "Lua"
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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"
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"
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
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"
There was still room enough left in the sky for a few shooting stars.
On the turntable: U2, "Boy"
Monday, September 10, 2007
Sunday, September 09, 2007
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"
(Thanks to J for this one...)
On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "World Gone Wrong"
Saturday, September 08, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Takeshi Hirayasu and Bob Brozman, "Jin Jin/ Firefly"
On the nighttable: Natalie Goldberg, "Writing Down the Bones"
Friday, September 07, 2007
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 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"
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
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"
On the turntable: McCoy Tyner, "Enlightenment"
On the nighttable: John Banvile, "The Sea"
Monday, September 03, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "The Genuine Basement Tapes"
On the nighttable: A.B. Mitford, "Tales of Old Japan"
Friday, August 31, 2007
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"
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"
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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"
...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"
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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"
On the turntable: "St. Germain des Pres Cafe"
On the nighttable: James Michener, "The Drifters"
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
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"
--Bliss Divine
On the turntable: The Fixx, "Reach the Beach"
On the nighttable: Chie Nakane, "Japanese Society"
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Black Sabbath, "The Mob Rules"
On the nighttable: George MacDonald Fraser, "Flashman at the Charge"
Monday, July 23, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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"
On the turntable: The Nightwatchman, "One Man Revolution"
On the nighttable: Eckhart Tolle, "The Power of Now"
Friday, July 20, 2007
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"
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"
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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"
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"
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Talking Heads, "Remain in Light"
On the nighttable: James Sydney, "The Warrior's Path"
Saturday, July 14, 2007
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"
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"
Friday, July 13, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Bjork, "Volta"
On the nighttable: Robert Ward, "Shedding Skin"
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Jimmy Buffet, "A1A"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "Birthday Stories"
Monday, July 09, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
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"
On the turntable: Isis, "In the Absence of Truth"
On the nighttable: Henri-Pierre Roche, "Jules and Jim"
Monday, July 02, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
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"
On the turntable: "Shakti Fusion"
On the nighttable: Davy Rothbart, "The Lone Surfer of Montana, Kansas"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)