Kumano Prologue II

 

Another Sunday.  We took the train down to Uji, picking up the trail where we last left it, to follow the nobleman Fujiwara Tamefusa down the Uji-gawa to its confluence with the Katsura-gawa, which flows south from Kyoto proper.  

 

Our route led us along a busy road which ran above the river.  It was a shame to be this close to water and not be able to see it.  Once in a while we'd notice a path below and would drop down onto it, but before long, we'd end up back in the high grass again.  Back up to the road.  We did this scramble up and down the steep concrete embankment a half dozen times before giving up and sticking with the road.  It was hard to look down at the view with all the cars rushing at us.  Many people seemed to be out for a leisurely drive, but it was hard to tell with all the blank expressions looking back at us.  Granted the first hour of this walk was little fun with the traffic, but we seemed to be the ones having the best time.   

 

We stopped for lunch under the drooping trees beside the river. A man and his grandson were standing in the flow, casting a net into the current.  Off the road, time moved much slower, and for a moment it felt like we were beside the Mississippi.  I mentioned this to Miki, who professed her love for Tom Sawyer.  Moving along, the resumption of concrete brought us firmly back to good old Japan.  At least we were off the road.  We talked and walked, talked and walked, trying to ignore the full heat of August midday.  One man didn't seem to mind, tanning in his bikini briefs beside his bike.  An hour later, the river began to narrow and more trees appeared.  A few people were fishing in their shade.  A woman dozed in a van nearby.  A bit further on, the sound of dirtbikes lured us down to a path at the water's edge.  Again, we were sucked in, only to wind up back in the weeds.  On the road again...   A horse-racing track loomed up.  The field was empty at the moment, but shadow figures dotted the stands.  Among them was the man who'd sat across from us on the train down, studying racing forms all the way.   Judging by his new suit and shoes, he was good at it.  Judging by all the construction going on around here, the track's owners were better.  

The day got hotter still.  We took some shade under a tree in front of a new temple.  It was a strange setup, literally a temple facade welded onto a mobile home.  Buddha for the trailer park set.  A tent was nearby, and there seemed to be some kind of open house for burial plots.  A man in uniform stood up on the hot dusty road, deftly handing the cars which pulled up by the... ones?  I only saw a couple myself.  As we sat drinking cold tea, we got to witness the famed changing of the guard ritual.  One man pedalled up on his bike (no need to cause unnecessary work for his cohort), walked up to the other and saluted.  Then the first man got on the same bike and pedalled away.  Strange things were afoot on this stretch of river in the middle of nowhere.  David Lynch couldn't have choreographed it better.

We finally entered a housing area and began to see the signs cautioning us against vipers.  My heart stopped.  All morning we'd been walking in and out of high reeds, oblivious.  Each footfall now became mindful.  The trail stopped abruptly at the Keihan train line.  I thought we could jump the fence and dash to the trail on the other side, which lay in plain view.  But Miki felt that with the increase in train-assisted suicides lately, there was probably a camera on us.  And heavy fines thereafter.  We took the long way around, down onto another busy highway.  Somewhere near the confluence of three rivers, I felt I'd had enough concrete for the day.  My knee had been acting up for most of August, and these 14 kms across hard surfaces were starting to bring about complaints.  Just over there was a train station.  And trains always lead to places with red wine and films and ice cream...

 

On the turntable:  James Brown, "Black Caesar"

On the reel table:  "Into the Wild"  (Penn, 07)

 

Sunday papers: Sam Keen

"We begin to end warfare not when we have better weapons, but when we have truer words."

--Faces of the Enemy

On the turntable: Sarah Vaughan, "Gold"

Kumano Prologue

 

Jump back to rainy season June. Ishiyama-dera again. This time, it serves as the starting point for a walk to Uji. Our route would be the first of a three day traverse along the Yodogawa toward Osaka. We started here because I'd found reference in a travel diary that a nobleman named Fujiwara Tamefusa had begun his 1081 Kumano pilgrimage with prayers at Motomiya, before boarding a boat at nearby Ishiyama.  He followed the Seta River to Uji, where the river then continues on by that name.  This seemed a fitting destination for us too.

 

It was soon apparent that this wouldn't be the most beautiful of walks, a 25km trudge along asphalt. The beginning was pleasant enough, following the narrow tail of Lake Biwa, home to crew teams and oversized bridges. (Somewhere along the way, we rescued a bullfrog the size of a catcher's mitt. It had been trapped in the road and had dried out too much to move. Miki has written of this part of the adventure on her own blog.) We stopped in at a few shrines on the way and followed the water until it entered a canyon. It was beautiful to walk along the high cliffs, the color of the water changing with the weather. Less pleasant was that we were walking on a narrow, shoulder-less, sidewalk-less road busy with Sunday joyriders driving much too fast. 

 

We eventually came across Tachiki Kannon Temple, which offered a respite from our worrying about traffic. A 15 minute climb up the stairs was the only true altitude gain that day. This temple's layout is a testament to the wonders of Esoteric Buddhism, with windy paths leading around the mountain, and long rambling buildings dark except for fire. We stayed up here a long awhile, decompressing. (Walking alongside speeding cars takes some toll on the nervous system.) Besides the two of us, there were about a dozen young women doing light cleaning and weeding. Oddly, they were all really beautiful. It was as we had come to the lair of some Bond villain, all dark and atmospheric and staffed by absolute babes. But rather than finding a bald, monocle wearing, cat stroking evil genius, we instead met with a kind old woman speaking in a thick dialect. And the only plot we stumbled across was her plan to serve us tea.

Back down on the road, the rain came on heavy. Thick sheets of atmospheric Kurosawa rain would drench you in minutes, despite wearing good gear. Unlike the brief squalls of this tropical summer, this rain stayed over and around us for the rest of the day. Miki and were both pretty miserable for about a half hour, then it became comical and ridiculous, and before long, I found myself having the best time. I can't explain it, but the discomfort made us both giddy. So we walked on, above a rushing river stained brown with runoff, past the usual dregs of inaka--closed restaurants, decaying love hotels, and parking lots built... Just in case? Despite a few conversations about hitching out, we pushed on toward Uji, arriving just as the rain stopped. 

 

On the turntable: Dizzy Gillespie, "Groovin' High"

On the nighttable: Sawako Ariyoshi, "The River Ki"

 

I'll Be Your Mirror

I answer my cellphone. The reception in my house isn't the best, so I go and stand near the window, where the reception is better. It's someone I haven't talked with for a couple years, so we chat awhile, catching up. As we talk, I begin to hear the hysterical cries of child. I'm thinking that a misbehaving child has been locked out of the house by its parents. This ostracizing from the group is a common form of punishment in Japan, and one that I loathe. Then I hear the child cry out "Mommy" in English. It at once hits me that the song issuing from the speakers behind me is Lou Reed's, "The Kids." For the album, the producer had recorded the sound of his son crying when he hadn't wanted to go to bed.

How wonderful are those moments when reality and imagination greet one another.

On the turntable: Lou Reed, "Berlin"

On the nighttable: Klaus Kinski, "Kinski Uncut"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown III

Near Nagara Koen is a small temple dedicated to Fudo-myo. It has a bizarre layout, with a covered path that leads behind a waterfall to a small cave where a few statues of the deity stand. I crane my neck out to wet my head, already sweaty from the heat of a sun shining in the flawless blue of a post-typhoon sky. Thus purified, Miki and I rejoin the Shizen Hodo. Our gentle climb to ridge is accompanied by the rhythm of a taiko being played somewhere through the trees. The contours of Lake Biwa's eastern shore are easy to make out in this clear air. We descend again, to find a small shrine. We sit here awhile, the taste of our trail mix sullied somewhat by the smell of burning meat wafting up from a restaurant somewhere below us. We cross a skybridge high above a well-trafficked Rte 1. Then the stairs begin. I've mentioned before how lucky we've been not to have had to ascend some of the steeper sets we've come across, mere coincidence based on our choice of direction. Today our luck runs out. Each step is spaced a little wider than a normal stride, which means wearily lifting the thigh to a height where we're nearly goosestepping. Yet they give an alternative to a long climb up trails made wet and slippery after heavy rain. The stairs seem to have been built relatively recently, and the smell of cedar accompanys each step. Unfortunately, they seem to cover each of Otowa-san's 593 meters and over an hour later we're still climbing them. Near the top, the trail levels out to cut through kumagusa, and our fatigue immediately vanishes with the worry of an accidental encounter with a bear foraging before a long nap. On the peak, there is a clearing which offers fine views of Kyoto in the distance, but it lies under a series of electrical towers crackling and buzzing high above. A den of boy scouts has already taken up most of this clearing, and none of the adult scoutmasters seems prepared to return a polite greeting. After a quick look at the scenery, we move off the peak, to find a quiet lunch spot just off the trail further down. The descent is far gentler than the climb, taking us through sections of forest unique in that they aren't choked with the usual monoculture of sugi. At one point, I could actually be back in New Mexico, walking over reddish clay beneath short pines. Other places are of a more Alaskan tinge, the forest floor lush with ferns. The trail takes us alongside a creek for awhile, before passing between a series of small ponds. Wires cross-cross some of them in order to protect the carp from scavenging kites. It isn't too long before we reach a village, where a couple of old men rest beside cameras that have been aimed at the ridges above. A month ago, somebody built a small park here, all ropes and logs. We linger awhile to swing and climb, then doze a bit in a hammock, under a tree canopy high above, the tall boughs stealing kisses as they waltz in the breeze. Moving on through houses growing more consistent. A long flight of steps leads up to Basho's hermitage of Genju-an, where we sit and pen hasty haiku.

Not even autumn winds

Can lift heavy legs

Up Genju-an's steep steps

Walking back down the hill over damp mossy concrete is like walking on ice. Below, we encounter heavier suburbs, and soon the trail markers peter out. We are directed across the grounds of a high school, and eventually find Ishiyama-dera's train station past flimsy trophies of newly acquired wealth.

On the turntable: Lou Reed, "Street Hassle"

On the reel table: "Thank You for Smoking" (Reitman, 2005)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown II

A couple weeks later, Sunday's forecast was for cooler, overcast skies, promising nicer walking conditions. But the closer we got to Hiei's eastern face, the less I liked the look of the sky. Those carved valleys were holding onto clouds, letting loose precipitation which would eventually precipitate cuts deeper still. Mere minutes off the train, the rain found us and the cuts most quickly noticeable were those in my mood. The squall moved on soon enough but my mood remained dark. We'd had a black cat run out in front of our bikes today, and those old wives tales were proving their staying power. Yet can I default to superstition what had truthfully been my own absent-mindedness? In less than 15 minutes, I'd forgotten my camera, habitually stepped into flimsy sandals rather than decent hiking shoes, and boarded the wrong train. When I'd noticed my empty camera case, Miki and I had been deep into a conversation about a lecture she'd heard the day before. The speaker had mentioned that two of the major crises facing Japan are its falling birthrate and the lack of self-sustainable food sources. It's as if people today, overwhelmed with the conveniences of modern technological society, have forgotten two of the most fundamental parts of human survival- making food and having babies. Ironically, having forgotten my camera--the technological extension of the eye--I'd have to rely on my own sight and memory.

We found the place where we'd left the trail a couple weeks back. It led us to Omi Jingu, whose beautiful roofs matched the line of hills behind it. The word "Omi," used as a prefix for many of the towns and train stations in this area, denotes the region's wealthy merchant background. This massive shrine, comparatively ornate for the simplistic nature of Shinto, was a testament to that wealth. After a few claps and a bow of the head we moved on. And got lost. It took us some time to find the trail marker, behind a fence and facing in the direction that it was least likely to be seen. About a hundred yards or so, we found another marker at the edge of a new-ish bedroom community. The trail markers earlier on in Sakamoto had had arrows showing the direction of the path. These new posts had replaced those single arrows with a kind of slogan or brand, of multiple arrows extending in various directions like a hydra's head. I assume that the trail markers of a particular area is the responsibility of the municipality. Otsu-shi, into which we'd just stepped, had no doubt decided that in order to be different from their neighbor city, it would design a unique, yet counter intuitive, sign. This decision, encapsulated in a single simple wooden post, led us first about twenty minutes up a steep mountain road to a lonely shrine, then later, coupled with some helpful, yet incorrect advice of a local old-timer, further into the mountains along a different road, into the waiting arms of those storm clouds occupying this valley. We sat a while under the gate of a Jodo temple. (I smell a metaphor here. The major tenet of that sect's belief is that in times of trouble, one can find refuge in the Sutras. Which to them seems be sufficient since their closed-off temples definitely won't offer refuge from the elements.) The sky cleared as we backtracked, and we were directed to yet a third route, which proved correct. We quickly grew lost again, and by a series of frustrated guesswork, made it through a lush city park, past a few posh condos and into the woods where those previous, useful signs resumed. This traverse through the 'burbs should've taken 15 minutes at most, but it took us over two hours, all due to a single sign. I fumed the whole while. Why erect signs at all, if you plan to space them so far apart that they're impossible to follow? Apparently somebody agreed with me, since the only other marker we saw had had most of that confusing hydra symbol torn away to reveal at least the correct cardinal direction, if not the path itself. (This loss of direction is metaphor number two. The scenery below and around us was of monoliths of wealth, in the forms of rec facilities, stadiums, and towering apartment blocks. Yet the town chose not to fund a few yen for decent signs. And the three local people who we asked directions didn't have any idea what we were talking about. Again, those trappings of modern society serving as disconnect from things on a human scale and our more localized 'place in space.' But isn't a map or trail marker also technology? Am I being a hypocrite to rely on these rather than in the intuitive skills which define me as human?) All I know is that once back in the woods, on a well-marked path, my shoulders fell away from my shoulders, and I was again taken over by the enjoyment that a good walk can bring.

At the border here of new and old, we found a small temple with uneven stone stairs and a weathered gate whose thatch was peeling in the corners. The garden beyond was overgrown, and behind it were a series of grave stones dotting the forest floor. To my surprise, I had stumbled upon the final resting place of Ernest Fenollosa. I'd known he was buried somewhere in Shiga, but I hardly expected to find him here behind a seemingly forgotten temple. Next to him were the graves of Tendai convert William Sturges and of James Woods, an early American scholar of the Yoga Sutras. Nearby was a bench offering views of the buildings of Otsu city stacked below. We watched dark storm clouds coming over from the direction of Hiei. When the thunder and lightning began, we rushed through high grass to a small shelter I had spotted through the trees. It turned out to be a bell tower, but oddly, the bell had been removed. The long wooden striker still hung from a rusted chain, but the platform on which we sat was cracked and uneven . The bell seemed to have been taken quite a long time ago. I pictured Nobunaga, in his rush up to burn out the Sohei of Enryaku-ji, had melted the bell down as iron for his guns. The elderly woman in the temple itself later provided the answer. During the Second World War, the bell had indeed been taken to be melted down for munitions, but had never been used. After the war it was to be returned, but as the workmen had not wanted to carry it further up the steep hill, it was taken only as far as neighboring Enman-in temple, who refused to give it back to the proper owner. I thought it amazing that one temple would steal the bell of another (not too surprising if you remember the enmity between the Tendai sects around here), but upon arriving at Enman-in twenty minutes later I quickly understood. It was the gaudiest temple I've ever seen, with a massive concrete design under a bright neon sign. Money and profit seems to be the driving force of faith here; even the kanji can be read as "Full of money." They had a Soba shop on the grounds, plus offered services for Mizuko Jiko, these services for aborted fetuses being big business. Hundreds of flags dotted the courtyard, the names of the business donors flapping in the wind. It was if an old samurai army were camped in this concrete fortress. And of course there was the bell. Rather than being housed in the usual simple platform of wood and stone, it instead hung from three massive steel rods fashioned into a curved pyramid. The insult was complete. Miki and I expressed our disgust at the well where worshippers purified their hands and mouths. Being a follower of Buddhism, I have great respect for those rituals which give the sect definition. Yet today, I redefined the form by using these ladles to wash off my muddy feet and sandals.

Cleansed, we soon came to nearby Mii-dera, one of my favorite places in Japan. The rest of the day was spent wandering these temples, admiring the simple beauty of the wooden Buddhas, and trying to coax the caged peacocks to open their tails. Later, up at Kannon-do, we meditated before the many armed statue of the god(dess), noting how it would look right at home in India, the land of this diety's birth. All the while the fluorescent lights above droned like a tamboura, an instrument from that far-off land, out of whose seemingly monotonous tones melodies are born, much as how thoughts, and the moods that accompany them, come out of the unceasing constant of Reality.

On the turntable: Chick Corea and Bela Fleck, "The Enchantment"

On the nighttable: Murial Barbery, "The Elegance of the Hedgehog"

On the reel table: "The Face of Another" (Teshigahara, 1966)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown I

Having climbed most of the mountains in this region, and having completed the 60km Kyoto circuit trail, Miki and I have recently begun to walk some of Japan's ancient roads. Part of them have been paved over with busy thoroughfares, but quite often the simple act of taking the next street over will magically slide you centuries back in time. Much of their charm still remains in the form of small villages and old mountain trails dotted by statues and stone. These excursions have overlapped on occasion with the Tokai Shizen Hodo, a more modern trail that starts at Takao in west Kanto, meandering through the hills above its more famous ancestor the Tokaido, until finally coming to a sudden stop in Hyogo-ken. On weekend days of generous weather we can be found ambulating the loop that wends around southern Kansai. A far more ambitious plan is to walk from our home in the Kyo's eastern hills and down the true Kumano Kodo, following the 1000 year-old course which starts not from modern Tanabe in Wakayama but from Kyoto proper. Where the nobles used to take a boat from Heian's south end, riding the Yodogawa to Tenmabashi, we've decided to do this all by foot, taking the ten day route through Osaka and down the Kii peninsula's western coast into the mountains, before eventually ending up at the shrines of Ise.

We began our true circuit this summer. I've been long curious about the lights that are atop the mountains above my house, always beckoning me during my nighttime bicycle rides. They seem to be just out of reach, an hour's walking tops, I thought. We climbed our usual route up to Uryu-zan, then followed the Hiei-bound trail until it drops into a beautiful valley where a small stream curves away from Kyoto and begins to head south. The best picnic spot in the city. From here, the path shoots straight up with far too much enthusiasm. Our single-hour hike, doubled, then doubled again. At the top we found a hotel belonging to Seika University, whose caretaker had proven to be a rude shite when I'd tried to chat him up about hiking routes back in March. Across the road at L'hotel Hiei, we picked up the Tokai Shizen Hodo (TSH) Here the trail drops again, down the steepest staircase in the world. At the bottom, we were congratulating ourselves on not having to ascend them, until we saw an equally daunting set of switchbacks immediately ahead. Over this ridge then, and down a kinder slope, though one where a concrete fetishist had littered the narrow valley with about a dozen huge and pointless dams. Does it really snow that much up here? The ghosts of the ruined temples dotted about probably aren't amused. The stream we followed led us eventually to Biwa. Long lateral traverses are always much more difficult than relatively easy ridge walks, and although we hadn't covered a lot of space relative to the map, we'd exhausted much energy in crossing three ranges in a few hours. Tired, the train swept us in.

On the turntable: Fleetwood Mac, "Carousel Ballroom, June 1968"

EC '08: A Cranky Reinterpretation

Despite the respite I found during Obon and later in Kochi, I still found a slight disconnect between perception and reality. This fact was driven home after arriving in Naoetsu. I'd made this trek to Sado six times and knew my route quite well. Yet it was only after I'd bought my ticket and some food before I thought to ask myself, "Where the hell is everybody?" A quick check of the ferry times told me that the departure times had changed in April. (In my own defense, Kodo's English page still listed the old schedule.) I'd rushed off at dawn's proverbial crack in order to sit and wait for three hours. For the expensive jetfoil. This service, while convenient, took away all the joy of the slower, lumbering approach toward the island, time spent laughing it up with punters just as happy as yourself. Upon arriving, I broke my own speed record in setting up my tent, grabbed my tickets and food, then joined JesusChris and pals to climb the trail to the mountain stage, under the shrieks of sex-crazed cicadas.

Unlike last year, we found a spot halfway back on the right. This farther vantage point gives a good overview of the choreography, yet missing is the subtle details of what the individual drummer is actually up to. It was good fun though, cracking jokes with J.C. about, well, everything really. Yet my eyes rarely left the stage. Each of the few dozen times I've seen Kodo is always a little different, a testament to their ever-evolving nature. This past year saw the group split into many smaller subunits, touring to express a more personal interpretation of the group's music. A few years ago, Marcin expressed how he felt that the cookie-cutter nature of Kodo's apprentice program, while admittedly producing fantastic drummers, has the unfortunate side effect of leaching out much of the personal attributes and talents of the individual. (Though this is the nature of any Japanese apprenticeship, shu ha ri and all that.) Tonight, on stage before us, we could see brief instances of reclaimed self-expression, for better or worse. The trio of P.P.C. made their usual appearance, but to be frank I'm getting a little tired of their one joke act. Nothing to see here, move along. More impressive were the ladies of Cocon, with their demonstrations of strength and delicacy. In fact, the theme of this show seemed to be "Grrrl Power." After the usual thunder of "Yatai Bayashi," Chieko came out to play solo, the first time I've ever seen her drum onstage. The boys would do a heavy drum piece, then were followed by something light, like the almost Celtic strains of flute and bowed shamisen. For these more mellow, choreographed pieces, I appreciated my position further back. Maybe I've been watching too much Kurosawa, but from back here everything looked surprisingly flat, as if seen through telephoto lens. Yet having worked on that stage, I know how deep it is. Bizarre. (Speaking of filmmakers, one thing audible that I noticed is how each drummer has a particular tuning, similar to how John Woo has a different sound for each of his character's guns.) As usual, there was the obligatory Odaiko, with it's rippling muscles and flexing cheeks. And every year, without fail, somebody in the crowd would actually be dancing to it. Always brings to mind a lyric by the late great Dead Milkmen. But the girls held their own, taking nearly all the premier drum parts. It almost felt like Tsubasa was the lead drummer tonight. (Although she was outplayed on the final piece by Natsumi. I mentioned this later to a Kodo insider and he said, "You better not let Tsubabsa hear you say that." ) Overall, while this show of grace and skill was beautiful to watch, it never got the crowd going. The key to Friday's show is usual an energetic, "Irrashai!" But this year we never got lift off.

Down off the hill again, that lack of energy was still apparent. There was nothing at all going on, no drumming, no fire-spinning hippies. J.C. and the girls and I grabbed some beers and sat down by the water. All the while, increasing winds whipped up waves which would cause the sailboat moored in front of us to rock violently, its ropes slapping out a ringing Morse-code on the mast with every roll. Bad weather on the way...

After a surprisingly good sleep, I did some yoga in front of my tent, then met up with J.C. to watch Cocon go on in a light rain. The worsening weather was fitting for the next act, a group of deer dancers, whose eerie movements perfectly mimicked the animal. Like shamanistic beasts moving through the mist. Soon after, I was off to my Odaiko workshop. It is the only Taiko that I'd never trained on, and with its relatively simple rhythms, it seems to be about stamina rather than skill. There were about forty of us, and only two drums, so we only got to play in short increments. But this was enough, since the shoulders begin to scream after a couple minutes. (Much respect to those who play it onstage, lasting for about 13 minutes or so.) I later mentioned to Yoshikazu how happy I was to be able to play the new Odaiko that I'd seen in construction while with KASA Mix back in 2005.

The rain stopped in time for the night's concert. J.C. had gone back home, but I was found by a group of fellow yoga teachers from the Kyo. The five of us all work together, but never seem to meet. We scored good seat up close to the stage, but it didn't matter. Within minutes of taking the stage, the lead singer of Olodum yelled out for everyone to dance, and immediately, hundreds of people rushed to dance down in front. Usually dancing is reserved to the areas of to the side, but tonight it was totally chaotic. Kodo's security team tried to get the crowd to sit back down but were completely ignored. When something if over planned, there is a certain feeling of schadenfrede in watching things fall apart within minutes. After all, the theme was Brazil night. Unlike most years, when the majority of the audience is Kodo fans, here it seemed that half had come for Olodum. And these fans wouldn't be budged for two hours. During the melee, I looked over to see poor Joe, holding his arms up as a barrier between two big Brazilians practically giving him a lap dance. He looked at me and rolled his eyes. In response, I mouthed the words in time to the Bob Marley cover currently being played on stage: "Everything's gonna be alright." Directly in front of me, a small group of people was bouncing and pogo-ing. One girl, incredibly drunk, would take a few steps backward and then run to shove her friends, who, well into their own cups, would fall all over the people around them. Normally I'm pretty subdued about things. Plus, most of the dancing I did in high school had the prefix, "Slam-" attached. But this was outright dangerous. As she stumbled in my direction, I grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around to shout in her face, "Cut that shit out right now!" She did, and luckily, not one her super-sized friends seemed to mind my buzzkill. On stage, Olodum powered on. I'd really been looking forward to seeing them, but it got old for me after about 15 minutes. Their rhythms were redundant, their technique limited. One giant, all done up in neon dreads, would repeatedly throw his stick waaaay up in the rafters, only to miss catching it half the time. He seemed to be the Flava Flav of the group. I laughed at the religious rites of large concerts, where the audience mimics the gestures of the singer, both sides collaborating on a large amount of call-and-response. The monorhythm finally finished two hours later. (At least for this night. Throughout the weekend, samba teams from all over Japan would occasionally march around, playing their single memorized rhythm. Again. I used to love Brazilian music, but up close, I feel that it's more about performance and spirit rather than technique. And that's fine. But likewise I prefer actually talented musicians to DJs. Not much of a party person anymore, I'm afraid.) Usually during the Saturday night show, Kodo will come on to perform a few songs with the guest, but tonight they only played one. And, boy did they look small standing amidst these massive Bahians. The skies too seemed to protest, letting loose as we all lumbered past the cattle shoots the cops had erected, creating more of a hazard in the rain. (But a music festival isn't a music festival unless there's some mud.) Tired and grumpy, I lurched toward my tent, drenched and dripping with rain.

Miserable sleep. The nearby constant dripping upon my body had me dreaming of a Chinese invasion conducted at a time when all eyes were on Olympic Beijing. Everything I had was drenched. Back at EC 2005, I'd had had the same experience, which had permanently damaged a drum and some electronics equipment, yet I hadn't remembered to waterproof the rainfly later. I'd woken sometime in the night to a long coughing jag. While I don't usually mind the lack of creature comforts, I doubted I wanted to sleep out in the rain another night. Luckily, while in line for tickets at the shrine, I met an English guy who would be heading back to Tokyo that day. His room proved to be free. My relief was short lived once I found that I had lost my camera. I spent the better part of the morning retracing my steps of the previous night, when I'd last remembered having it.

Giving up, I set off for a Brazilian percussion workshop, which was extremely dull. Rather than featuring a member of Olodum, it was led by a middle-aged Japanese woman whose main qualification seemed to be her genkiness. The first half consisted of clapping and stomping to a single beat--for an hour. I considered leaving during the break, but didn't wanted her to lose face. A shame that I didn't leave since the second hour also had us focus on a single beat, though at least we got drums this time.

Disappointed, I dragged my stuff through a persistent rain to my new digs. One of my roomies was a guy I'd met (somewhere?) before; the other was the boyfriend of the slam-dance girl I'd put in a Vulcan Death Grip the night before. (Not Death Grip exactly. More like the grip of Faux Authority. ) Check-in time conflicted with my work schedule, but I was allowed to come to work late. When I finally arrived at the Flea Market staff tent, it was impossible to enter due to yet another costumed samba group working their way through their single song repertoire. When I could finally get into the tent, my work shift was half over, so we decided to let me off. With the ferry schedule change, I wouldn't be doing any work Monday either. This year, the festival was mine to "enjoy."

While having a soak in the rotemburo, I reflected on this 'enjoyment.' EC wasn't what it used to be. Last year had just been too big. I know that after the 10th anniversary in '97, Kodo had purposely scheduled the following year's event for May, in order to reduce the numbers. This year too felt strange. Some folks have complained that the security was too much, but I believe that these were measures that had been adopted to handle to increased mobs of last year, measures which were used again. I felt that this year's EC once again had that mellow vibe of years past, sadly missed in 2007. It was the other things, such as the changes in seating arrangements, plus the fact that the evening performance was now "all-or-nothing,' no longer using the smaller venue in the case of rain. The festival didn't feel less peaceful so much as too top heavy. It was as if Kodo again wanted a reduction in the number of fans. Scheduling the event during Obon next year will bring about exactly that. As for me, I sat in the hot water debating if I'll even come next year. If I do, I certainly won't work, or take workshops. Simply 'enjoy.'

I met up with the Kyoto gang and we lounged awhile around the flea market area. Unlike last night when I'd been the first up the mountain, this time we were amongst the last. Mobs of staff were on hand to prevent a repeat of last night's melee. And shortly into Kodo's set, I began to rethink my ideas of not coming again. Sometime during the weekend, they'd refound the magic. As they do, they were sharing it with us, helping us to forget the bad weather, which was miraculously clearing for the first time since Friday. Olodum only joined them for a few numbers, but they weren't a group who showed much versatility. Musical collaborations go somewhat beyond, "Dumdumdum, dadadadadum." Friday's division of labor was present this time too, with the men singing out in front, backed up by the women banging away on the Okedo just beyond. The dancers danced in their area off to the side and the punters sat equally contentedly on their tarps. Five encores later, Kodo had won us back.

Plus, I found my camera.

On the turntable: John Lennon, "The Complete Lost Lennon Tapes"

An August Settling

I have noticed that I don't usually write much in August. Maybe it's the heat, wearing the brain down to the sharpness of a dull pencil. Or maybe it's the fact that at the height of summer, those long days demand more action and less reflection. Words usually reserved for the written form instead come tumbling out in beer- and excitement-fueled encounters, those planned and those created by fate. But this year, the words themselves , and the thought processeses behind them, were more than a bit off.

Through June and July, the taking of short trips alternated with the hosting of guests, becoming like baubles on a string. The more they built up, the thinner that strand became, until it threatened to snap. At the same time, I was struck by the first real bout of homesickness in the 14 years I've lived here. I felt completely detached from the present, drifting back and forth between memories of last year's pleasant summer spent in Vermont's kinder climate, and escape plans made for next year. Where the mind goes, the emotions follow, until both completely slipped their tether. By the time August rolled around, this was all playing out in small mysterious injuries, general grumpiness, outright loathing for my adopted land, and a bizarre nervous energy that was apparent to anyone who had the misfortune to cross my path during those dog days of Kyoto summertime.

So I decided to take a small retreat. Miki headed home to Hiroshima for Obon, leaving me with four days for and with myself. I stocked up on food and didn't step outside the whole time, committing myself to silence, yet allowing myself to follow every whim. Meditation, books, music, and films. (It wasn't all silence I suppose, since one of the latter was Jimi's 90 minute Woodstock set, watched on the anniversary of the festival.)

On the fifth day, I found myself riding a bus through the dead countryside of north Shikoku, past bastard children of the moneyed bubble years now in decay. Our friends Yayoi and Seiichi are in the midst of building a house further south in the far more beautiful rural Kochi, hoping to eventually replace their Osaka artist basecamp. It is a remote place, with a half dozen farmhouses and an early Meiji-era schoolhouse, all stretched along a small but fast-moving river. The school has since been converted to a shared community space for the villagers. When I arrived, Seiichi and other members of Rustic Pans (who I raved about here) were leading a workshop on building and playing steel drums. These workshops are held every month, attended by people coming from all over Shikoku and West Japan. After the workshop, the four of us began to make dinner. Shortly after getting picked up at the centipede-like structure of Kochi station, we had bought supplies for the next few days. But they turned out to be unnecessary. Our quiet dinner sooned turned into a party. Within an hour about twenty people turned up, including most of the village, plus a couple of artists doing a circumnavigation of Shikoku's beaches and hot springs. The locals brought down veggies, booze, and ayu which been obliviously swimming not an hour before. The main highlight was the homemade sake that went down like springwater. Not once was I treated as 'other', which went a long way toward restoring some of the love I have for things Japan.

Since Yayoi and Seiichi's house was as yet uninhabitable, the plan had been to camp out front. But the village headman was kind enough to let us lay out our sleeping bags inside the school itself. It was lovely to walk the halls and classrooms early the next morning, the traces of childhood energy still there. I had expected to face a day filled with light carpentry and lugging stuff around, but after a mere hour of work, we were off to a nearby town for a curry in a minka restored into a cafe by a artist/musician. Turns out he and Miki had met in Kyoto years ago when he had come to visit her roommate. After our meal, he showed us around his art space in a massive converted factory, while white-water rafters floating down the river just behind.

Back in the village, we worked on the house for maybe a hour more, then broke for the day. (I can now see why they're still working on this place after three years. I look forward to coming back here again and again to continue this pace of the grasshopper.) After our respective baths, Seiichi was earnest in his wish to hide somewhere while having dinner. Every night for a week, the villagers had turned up to drink, and by now he was exhausted. Yet ironically, no one else turned up this last night. Mercifully, we all slept and rose early to make the long drive back to Kansai. I especially was pleased to get home long before dark, since I was setting off to Sado early the next morning...

On the turntable: Jefferson Airplane, "Takes Off"

On the nighttable: Alistair MacLeod, "No Great Mischief"

On the reel table: "Pitfall" (Teshigahara, 1962)

Learned in the Garden Today

Try sweeping with the iPod on. Something heavy coming through. Maybe The Mr. T Experience, for example. And the body begins to follow certain movements. Nothing like the classic Townsend windmill, or anything else that would startle the neighbors. No, it's more subtle, the move of a bass player perhaps, more fitting to the slim body and long handle of the instrument in hand. The move starts small, with a splay of the legs, back slightly arched, knees pointing outward in the way that the Japanese might call, Ron-Pari. Thus supported, the hips begin to sway back and forth, shifting balance taken up by the broom, busy waltzing with the leaves and the twigs and the dust.

On the turntable: Mr. T Experience, "Making Things with Light"

On the nighttable: Idries Shah, "The Exploits of the Incomparable Mulla Nasrudin"

On the reel table: "I was Born, But..." (Ozu, 1932)

Betwixt...

Autumn skies.

Summer heat.

How many seasons?

On the turntable: Willie Nelson, "Broken Promises"

On the nighttable: Jim DeRogatis, "Let it Blurt"

On the reel table: "Woman in the Dunes" (Teshigahara, 1964)

8/15

On this day, the day when the spirits of the dead return home from their summer holiday, about a hundred dragonflies hover over this valley, riding the currents created by the heat of afternoon, swirling as if tracing the smoke trails of incense burning in the houses below.

The cooling of the day brings with it the towering airships of clouds.  Much later, after the dark has come, the moon will rise full, backlighting the clouds into the shape of a fan, reminding us of the cooler days to come, cooing 'transience' in our ears as they brush past, ruffling our hair.

On the turntable:  Johnny Winter, "Second Winter"

On the nighttable:  Diana Preston, "The Boxer Rebellion"

On the reel table:  "Jimi Hendrix, Live at Woodstock"

8:15

If only the thinking of two people could come together as easily as two hands do in prayer...

On the reel table:  "Gembaku no Ko" (Shindo, 1953)

                                  "Barefoot Gen"  (Mori, 1983)

Tokyo Interlude

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

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

On the turntable: Radio Paradise

In the Can

Those fine baristas over at Chin Music Press kindly offer a short piece of mine as their weekly special.  While you're over there, poke around a bit and enjoy the joe...

(December 2018 addendum: the piece can be read in its entirety here.)

On the turntable:  Manu Chao, "B Sides"

On the nighttable:  Malcolm Gladwell, "Blink"

On the reel table:  "Megane"  (Ogigami, 2007)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XI

I can't remember when I was down in Nara last. Probably two springs back, when I'd watched my mom and Maggie get pulled around by a young rickshaw driver. Today was a very warm July day, with the majority of the deer lounging listlessly in the shade. This time of year, their coats are shabby and their heads untrimmed, and as always, a few were panhandling the tourists for food. The museum had a special exhibit of the treasures of Horyuji, a few of which will never be seen by the public again. Very Japanese idea that, the value of something being based on how few people have actually seen it. What I did see, in spades, were the tops of many, many heads. As usual, it was too crowded to really see the exhibits, and the elbows of old women seem to get sharper every year. (Hadn't I once sworn never to see an exhibition in Japan ever again?) So I went through my usual pattern of being annoyed for about a half hour, until the sheer annoyance of it turned upside down and became comical. Most amusing was how, when a place opened in front of a display, a handful of people would make a quick move to fill it, reminding me of the movement of hungry carp jostling for food. Mostly, I found the whole experience disappointing by the fact that there were so few sculptures on display. The best stuff was in the permanent exhibit, housed over in the beautiful Meiji-era wing. Plus lots of space in which to gaze and dream. Fascinating how the statues began to transform through the centuries, losing their distinct Indian flavor to become more Chinese, then eventually become what we are used to seeing in temples throughout this country.

Miki and I grabbed some food, rudely eating on the train as a subtle form of revenge on the pointy-elbowed brigades seated around us. The end of the line was Tenri, where we planned to start one part of the Yama-no-be trail, the most ancient of Japan's numerous old roads.

Tenri is a small city which rose around the growth of the Tenri sect. (Think Salt Lake City.) The train station was at the open mouth of a long shopping arcade, which seemed to thrive despite similar arcades across the nation dying with a spectacular sucking sound as money is pulled out of the countryside toward the capital. Here were shops selling vegetables, selling robes, selling toys, selling Buddhist paraphernalia. Millions of pilgrims passing through have brought the money back from the capital again. At the opposite end of the long arcade is the main headquarters of the Tenri-kyo. The complex is surrounded on all sides by massive dormitories with pitched, Chinese-style roofs, making me think of housing projects crossed with the hotel in the film "Spirited Away." A massive temple serves as the heart-center of this space, space being the key word here since unlike most other Buddhist temples, there was no alter bearing candles or images, merely a large pit open all four sides. It was if four temples had been fused together, with an entrance at each cardinal direction, facing toward the dormitories beyond. At first I cynically thought that this religion has no center, but Joseph Campbell later informed me that within it is a post that marks the spot from which mankind evolved.

Miki and I entered and knelt awhile, enjoying the cool air and soft tatami. In the short time we were there, dozens of followers came in from each of the four doors, knelt before the open space before them, and did these perfect half bows. Then they'd start in on a chant, their hands tracing out a series of mudras in time to the rhythm. It was beautiful to watch, especially the kids tracing out smaller forms with their tiny fingers. Beside the families, there were also a few young couples, dressed as if this were part of the day's date. Many of the followers wore uniforms similar to judo practice tops, all black, and wrapped with that thick belt coveted by martial artists worldwide. One young guy sitting in front had a powerful and mesmerizing voice. I could've stayed here all afternoon, had we not had a 16km hike before us. I honestly felt really moved by what I saw, at the sheer faith that the followers displayed. I sometimes wish I had a strong unwavering faith in something, but for now I'll have to trust in my cynicism.

We stepped outside, past the shoehorn wallahs armed with the tools of their trade. In front of me, I was surprised to see two foreigners stop their bikes, do a perfunctory bow, then ride off again. Were these two members of this religion, or merely a couple of JET teachers working locally and made to do this as part of their living here? Puzzled, I moved on.

The rest of the day, we wandered in the shadows of the mountains, without actually entering them. At Isonokami Shrine, we watched the sacred long-tailed chickens, flitting from branch to branch like kids on a jungle gym. The trail took us past quiet ponds shaded by lily pads, between ancient burial mounds, and along waterways which fed the many fields and rice paddies. It was like walking through the Kojiki, but for the stones inscribed with passages from Basho who walked here a couple millenia later. These served as a reminder that time plods ever on, and is constantly being marked by bright minds attempting to make sense of our brief place in it. The day was growing hotter, so we took refuge in the shade of a house in one of the many villages we were to pass through. Someone had laid out some complimentary tea and sold veggies on the honor system. The reading material on a shelf nearby was very, very nationalistic, somewhat contradicting the open approach to strangers. Later in the afternoon, a squall broke overhead, but we sat happily on the steps of a small temple, enjoying the rhythms the rain played on the surface of a pond. An hour later, the rain caught us again, the two of us running to the shelter of somebodies makeshift barn. Further on we climbed up to a small shrine atop a tomb. Littered about were the bodies of about a half-dozen freshly killed crows. Well spooked, we quickly moved on. We entered the forest then and the shrines and temples began to take on a thicker concentration. This slowed our pace significantly, and we arrived eventually at Sakurai Station well past dark. Riding the train north, we sat tired but happy, out footfalls having taken us along one of the nicest hikes in the Kansai...

On the turntable: Bob Marley, "African Herbsman"

On the nighttable: Malcolm Gladwell, "Blink"

On the reel table: "Fort Apache (Ford, 1948)

Extra Innings

Been watching Ken Burns again, his "Baseball" doc this time around.  In the opening minutes of the first disc, where they're talking about the spirit of the game, I found myself suddenly overcome with great nostalgia.  In 14 years, it's the first time I've ever felt homesick.  Maybe it was my spending most of last summer in the States, where the days are long and life is meant to be lived out of doors.  And what defines summer better than Baseball? 

Jump to the series' seventh disc, this one opening with a Billy Crystal interview where he's talking about a childhood memory of going to Yankee Stadium.  And I begin to waver in my decision to convert to a Boston fan.  Until the end of his anecdote, where he begins to use words like history and tradition, and I know that I made the right choice.  It's best to leave those teams in the past, for that is the only place I can still see the lineup whose names I still remember.  Chambliss, Randolph, Dent, Nettles (my man!), Jackson, Rivers, Pinella.  Thurman Munson behind the plate, Guidry and Goose Gossage  standing 60 feet, 6 inches away.  And Billy Martin on the dugout steps, one eye on the field, the other to the owner's box, both eyes filled with fire.

Yet ironically, my greatest memories of the game are of the Sox.  Sitting on the front porch with my grandfather, he working his pipe with his teeth, me drinking my iced tea, both of us in absent-minded concentration on every word coming out of Fenway Park and straight into our transistor radio.  In that shared space, in that silence, was the birth of my meditation practice.

On the turntable:  Jakob Dylan, "Seeing Things"

On the nighttable:  Ian F. Svenonius, "The Psychic Soviet"  (Brilliant! Hilarious!...Brillarious!)

Hippo Birdy Two Gnus

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

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

Thanks especially for not singing that goddamn song...

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

On the nighttable: Paul Auster, "Leviathon"

Wednesday Morning, 4 A.M.

Dawn's coming light awakens me.

Hear the season's first cicada,

As I pee.

On the turntable: Fela Kuti, "Roforo Fight"

On the nighttable: David Mitchell, "Black Swan Green"

On the reel table: "The State of Things" (Wenders, 1982)

Between the Sheets

I think I've  figured out why the old Chinese euphemism for sex was "clouds and rain."   Here in the Kyo we've just passed a torturous series of muggy days where the temperature hovered around the number at which LP records used to lazily spin.  

A storm had been flirting with us all week, driving up the barometric pressure, causing any movement to become clumsy and awkward, any thought thick and slow.  So this morning, when the storm finally made her move, tearing open her bodice, thrashing about, and writhing in violent and boisterous passion, it brought a release that was almost sexual.

On the turntable:  Ry Cooder, "My Name is Buddy"

On the nighttable:  Amy Willard Cross,  "The Summer House"

On the reel table:  "Onibaba"  (Shindo, 1964)

I Coulda Had a G8!

Gone are the sirens and flashes of light

Gone are the helicopters, chopping noise through the muggy sky

Gone is the cell phone's fractured reception

Gone is the cluster of armored buses before a fortified city hall,

soon to be reclaimed by the breakdancers and para-para drones

Gone are the solitary cops, walking beneath the bridges like Victorian-era whores,

making you want to look but not be seen looking

Gone are the farrowed cops, a Baker's dozen in every neighborhood

Gone are the streets barricaded with your tax money

Gone are the trash bins sealed like dirty secrets

Gone is the fear of being stopped for being whitey on a bike

Gone, gone, because gone too are Condi and her seven friends.

On the turntable: Thelonious Monk, "The Complete Riverside Recordings"

On the nighttable: Edith Shiffert, "Kyoto Dwelling'

On the reel table: "Jean de Florette" ( Berri, 1986)

Going Down the Country (Pt.2: Omine-san)

On the map, I notice I can follow a road due north from here to reach Yoshino. I think about hitching but I'm anxious about being late for my 5pm appointed arrival time. I instead take a roundabout journey by train back up the coast. On the trip down, I hadn't noticed all the hotel construction around Tanabe, the jumping off point for Kumano Kodo's western edge. Towering high over the sea, these will serve as temples to the new Gods. At Tanabe, I don't have to look up from my book to register that someone has finally taken the seat beside mine. When I do turn my head, I see a young guy grinning creepily at me. His repetoir expands as he begins to chew the skin flaking and peeling at the end of his thumb. He continues this for another 90 minutes. When I disembark at Wakayama, I half expect to see him gnawing the stump of a wrist.

I take a local train that drags itself across the waist of the Kii-Sanchi. Kids in track suits begin to load us up, until everyone funnels out somewhere. With a bit more space, I turn away from my book and crane my neck toward the window. While Wakayama has some beautiful spots, I think neighboring Nara the more beautiful of the two, maintaining a bit more self-respect. At Yoshino station, I take the cable car to the village which covers the mountain. It's a summer Saturday, but there is almost no one around. I have some time to kill, so I talk awhile with a couple of shop keepers. One guy teaches me the proper way to blow the Horagai, that giant conch shell heard bellowing throughout the mountains around here. There is only a single other customer here, trying out these shells as well. He shows some accomplishment in his chops by creating a series of notes; far more impressive than my own bovine imitation. The owner tells me how during the war an American bomber crashed near here on its way back from bombing Kobe. One crew member survived, only to be tossed off a precipice higher up the mountain. Tomorrow, I'll be dangled by my legs over the same precipice, confessing my sins and hoping for a kinder fate.

At 5, I go up the step of Kimpusen temple. It's a massive structure, the roof supported by tree trunks the size of redwoods. I am joined by 22 other men, to be led by five yamabushi in a couple days training particular to their sect. I've done some of this before, with their brethren up north in Dewa Sanzan. While the hiking doesn't faze me too much, I'm immediately confronted by something I'd should've seen coming but didn't: seiza. The chanting begins, tempered by the clash of bells and pounding of drums, and for some reason, I start thinking about Han Shan. The fervor of the chanting builds up steadily, paced exactly by the loss of feeling in my legs. With seiza, I'm usually good for twenty, twenty-five minutes, but this goes on for twice that. When it's done, I will some blood into my feet in order to stand. Another guy literally has to be propped up by his armpits like the wounded in some war film.

More seiza quickly follows, as we eat dinner silently, oryoki style. After which we're finally allowed to stretch our legs as we go through the usual round of self introductions. The temple's head priest comes down to give us a pep talk, emphasizing that one of the main goals of this training is to come together as a group and become one. (This same point comes up every time I do any kind of shugyo, no matter what type.) We all go off to the baths then. They are small and accommodate only two at a time. My neighbor speaks exceptional English, and is currently doing post-grad work for SOAS. He'd been doing research in Lhasa, until the current round of troubles got him deported. He's basically just killing time in Osaka, waiting for Tibet to cool down enough to return. The conversation is good, but we both seem preoccupied with the next day. I'm in bed before 9.

It's a terrible sleep. One man's snores soon had me dub him, "The Fourth Tenor." He single-handedly keep the rest of us awake, allowing us to quickly become one in our shared loathing of him. Naturally, this guy, the only one to get a sound sleep, turns out to be the slowest on the mountain.

We awake at dawn to board a bus, then drive an hour to a point far up a mountain road. It's a steep ascent to the ridge and it takes the group a good while to get there. At the top, we meet the main trail, which I recognize as the one that Nate and Tatsuhiko and I walked back in '96. We had some pretty scary weather that day. It's not too bad this morning, the clouds diffusing the soft, warm light, in which we sit and eat our breakfast rice balls. I look at some of the others and wonder about what brought them to the mountain. One old guy in particular intrigues me, he having told me that he's recently retired and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his days. A few men seem his junior, both in years and in attitude, sneaking of for a smoke under the pretext of having a piss. There are a few younger, more seasoned hikers, and a few that look like they work as civil servants. And of course there are a couple of wild cards in the group, but there always seems to be. Anything that poses extreme physical or emotional challenges tends to draw people who don't quite fit in polite society. Quite often, these people can be the most interesting. But on this day, the previous week's killings in Akihabara are a fresh reminder that there are other precipices to topple over if one isn't careful with his balance.

In front of us was a tall gate: the entrance to Omine-san itself. Beyond these gates there may be no dragons (none that I noticed anyway), but there were certainly no damsels. This is the last mountain in Japan that women are forbidden to climb. Apparently, some aren't so happy with this, judging from the defacing of the large sign upon which said rule is writ. We pass through, and make our way toward the top. Throughout the day, we'll take part in certain rituals that are plenty scary and some, outright dangerous. (I still laugh at the fact that no one was made to sign a waiver beforehand.) Like Basho before me, I am forbidden to disclose details of this mountain to other people. And again like Basho, "I will therefore lay down my pen and write no more." Not due to poetic pretense or fear of litigation. I simply don't need any wrathful deities coming down on my ass.

On the turntable: Jackie McClean, "Rites of Passage"

On the reel table: "The Naked Island" (Shindo, 1960)