Omizu-okuri

It was Monday, and we were driving above a fast river, wheels pointed north. High mountains loomed at the head of the valley, looking quite smart in their winter outfits, in obvious emulation of their older Himalayan siblings. The look was accessorized with the rustic temples clinging to the hillsides, clumps of snow piled in their shadows. A grove of well-lined cedars lined the banks of the river. At one bend, a whole section of them had slipped into the water, taking out a large section of road in the process. The shabby makeshift bridge built nearby added further color to an already remote scene.

We arrived at Jingu-ji just before dark. Any temples with this moniker are the last remnants of the old Shinto-Buddhist connection which nearly became extinct with the coming of Meiji. This Jingu-ji, just south of Obama city, is perhaps the most famous, and is host to the Omizu-okuri festival every March 2nd. An acquaintance had a home just below the temple, and after a warming cup of tea in front of the Franklin stove, we walked out into the cold night. A few hundred people were gearing up, standing in front of the temple. A couple sections had been roped off, and at their centers a large pile of logs had been stacked, covered over by their soft needles. The air in this mountain valley was clear and revealed many stars, a crescent moon. Chanting had been going on for some time, punctuated by the occasional bellow of a conch shell. At seven, a bright light appeared within the main hall of the temple, and suddenly, a man shrouded in white appeared from within, carrying a massive fireball, which looked like a two meter smudge of sage lit aflame. Fire roared up into the rafters, brushing the curtains and punching out at the crowd. It's incredible that the whole place didn't go up. These shrouded men (covered head to toe in white and looking a little too similar to Klansmen) were accompanied by an entourage of yamabushi, who ran through a series of chants and mudras, twirling swords and axes, and even shooting arrows dangerously into the crowd. Then the pyre was lit, flames quickly shooting 10 meters up, in a swirling attempt to touch the stars. (Watching the upper limits of a fire this size and the shapes it makes reveals why we say "tongues of flame.") The wind was down, but the heat was belching up an incredible amount of sparks, going up like fireworks and coming down like grey snow. The heat also sent up sections of cypress needles the size of human hands, which would twirl slowly and teasingly like a bully, to fall down over the crowd whose collective volume would increase with their fear. The shrouded men brought the flaming bush back out through the crowd, who due to the heat began to push back, creating a dangerous chain reaction where the lot of us were collectively heaved backward, like the undulating movement of fire, of water. I knew then why I'd been warned not to wear my fleece hat. The fireball was carried down toward the river, and the crowd began to move toward the pyre left behind to light the goma sticks we carried. These were a length of thick rope tied together with four sticks of gomagi (a word that Ken Rodgers tells me has Indian roots). The crowd was still dangerously pushing, but this time toward the flames. Like everyone else, I fended for balance, until I noticed some open space to my right, so pushed my way out of the crowd. The was no perimeter to keep us in, and I couldn't figure out why everyone stayed herded together like that. I walked easily toward a small building which upon closer view contained an old well cut into the forest floor. This was the source of the water drawn earlier that had been purified by the flame. I took a sip. Very sweet. There was a huge tree just in front, its trunk old and twisted and swirling in the opposite direction than the flames had earlier on. Pure shamanistic magic this. Miki and our friends found me here, Juri leaning in close to the tree, sticking her face into a hollow knot like a deep kiss.

We then lit our gomaki from the incredibly hot embers in front of the tree and followed the crowds down the steps and alongside the river. What I saw before me was hundreds of people stretched down the river carrying torches as if looking for Frankenstein's monster. The yoga teacher in me suggests a more spiritual metaphor, of people using this sacred fire to light up the dark places of the soul, in order to root out the beasties that lurk there. But I know that the majority of the people here were taking part in this event for less serious reasons. And why not, there were snacks and cold beer waiting back on the tour bus. Our own group of a dozen had once again found each other somehow. Two of our friends had wrapped themselves in white cloth in protection from the heat, and we quickly dubbed them the Zoroastrians. We all followed the crowd upriver. I was amazed at how careless people were, considering they had 20cm flames extending from their outstretched arms. They'd turn quickly to shoot photos, or suddenly change direction. Beside minding both flanks, you had to take care not to trod on the many pieces of wood which had fallen to the ground and were still lit. Along the sides of the path were iron pots set up for people to drop their torches into. The further we'd go, the more had collected, the cumulative flames getting higher and higher. Miki and I laughed at one middle-aged woman looking quite panicked as the flames burned closer to her hand. Another man with an even shorter torch walked very deliberately. My own had burned pretty fast, and when the flame was about 15 inches, I mock run, holding my flame aloft like it's the Olympic torch. When it got down to 8 inches, I'm running for real, wanting to take this to the end, not wanting to add my flame to the others littering the road, which by now looks out of the Paris riots of '68. And how much this is like how we live our lives, trying to burn, burn, burn, trying to draw the energy out of every endeavor, and refusing to give up before those around us. Yet our flames will burn out when they will, and for those whose lives burn out of control, there's always the choice to let go, be it the literal corporeal release of suicide, or opting for the more peaceful (though challenging) path of transcendence, where we get to keep our flesh, yet must alter our relationship with it. I finally reach the end to find the crowd slowly funneling through a Torii arch and down a path to the river's bank. I mentally yell at them to let me pass, to let me add my fire to that already burning high and hot beside the water. Then I suddenly realize that we were never meant to carry them that far, and I extinguish my torch in a pail of water. I move with the crowd to the fireside, where the yamabushi are carrying out more rituals. They then cross a bridge to the other side of the river, where the head priest pours the purified water into the fast moving current. From here, an underground stream will carry the water to Nara's Nigatsudo where a similar ceremony will take place on March 13. The water will have moved along a ley line that takes it past Kurama, Kamigamo, Shimogama, Jonangu, and beyond Nara to the sacred sites further on, Tenkawa, Kumano Hongu, marking the coming of spring, as it has for 1300 years. We watch awhile the rushing water tinted red by fire. Then we turn and slowly head back down river. Like fire, like water, and like Spring, always returning.

On the turntable: Kokoo, "Super Nova"

On the nighttable: Swami Buddhananda, "Moola Bandha: The Master Key"

On the reel table: "A Man Called Horse" (Silverstein, 1970)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Westbound II (One for Nanao)

It was a beautiful day, very clear, very warm. We biked along a gradual slope, which led us between and around the small bamboo laden hills that dot the northern part of Kyoto. Out along a small creek, feeding the fields still sleeping away the winter season. Above one field, we saw a huge banner of Kokopelli, dancing in the soft breeze. This must be the place. Today, Wakusei Gakk o was hosting a memorial service for Nanao Sakaki. It was supposed to have started at 10, and despite our showing up a half hour past that time, preparations were still going on, mainly in the form of lighting fires and chopping wood. A few people were busy getting lunch ready. We all milled around, chatting quietly and respectfully. A small altar had been erected in the southeast corner of the yard, with a few pieces of fruit, some branches and flowers, a cup of something. One man with a beard and long ponytail knelt before it offering prayers. The rest of us stood silently, watching. The man began to play his handmade dulcimer softly, meditatively. After a few more prayers, he sang a song on his guitar, dancing back and forth in a rocking folksy style. Lastly, he picked up a long branch which looked like an unstrung bow, blew on it a few times, then stated in a loud voice that this wasn't a weapon, and that those of us gathered were lovers of peace. He threw the branch on a small fire, then followed it with some pieces of food, some water. Finished now, he stood back up and yelled at the sky, "Nanao, Omedet ō!" The rest of us did likewise, applauding and yelling our congratulations into the air.

People began to move into the school. One long wall was covered with dozens of photos, some with, or taken by, Gary Snyder or Allan Ginsberg. Gary's reading here in 1988 was where that flying Kokopelli had come from. Below the photos were tables covered with programs of former poetry readings, plus some handwritten letters and poems from Nanao. At the center of things was a small altar, and beside it were a few possessions, his jacket, his hat, his rucksack, his sandals. For a man who had stirred up so much dust, he certainly had small feet. At the back of the room was a stage. The rest of the day would be spent in poetry and song, capped off by a screening of an old Suwanose film from the old days. It looked to be a good time. Yet it was too nice outside. Giving it some thought, Miki and I decided to get out and honor it, and Nanao, in a way that he would have appreciated. Saying a quick goodbye to friends, we stepped out into the sun, and began to walk Earth A.

We followed the Tokai Hodo through the hills marking the western edge of Arashiyama, dotted with many small temples. Happily, we ran into few people out here, despite the good weather. We were reminded that we shared our walk with other living things, in the form of a sign in a public toilet telling to beware of Vipers. No surprise since they love the bamboo groves that striate the hills out here. Above one grove, we found a small Obaku temple, standing lonely and forlorn at the top of uneven stone steps which looked like broken teeth. The main hall was a zendo, the inside perimeter dotted with zafu. An "enlightenment stick" leaned against one of the pillars. In such a haunted locale, one could only imagine the severity of the training here. Not far away we followed the trail, ever marked by bamboo, up to a small pass where we rested with tea. Behind us, a new suburb had sprouted. A stone walkway led through it, following a creek which flowed between the cookie cutter homes here. If you've read this far, you know how I feel about suburbs, but this place had done well in honoring the surrounding hills and keeping a semblance of green. The rest of the day was spent moving along the groves famed for their persimmons, then on into deeper forest. In the fading light, we came to Oharano Jinja, built with some connection to the Imperial Family. At the front of the main shrine were the usual A-Un figures, this time in the form of deer, the open mouthed one to the right with a scroll in it's mouth (I wonder if Ojisan Jake can shed some light on why.) A bizarre end to the day, winding up in a place built in honor of the Imperial Family, whose deification led directly to the disllusionment of a young soldier, who, finding no place amongst such ways of thinking, opted simply to "Walk On."

On the turntable: "Boycott Rhythm Machine"

Sunday papers: Suzuki Shunryu

“We fall down by the ground, and we also stand up by the ground.”

On the turntable: Art Pepper, "Lost Life"

On the nighttable: Shiga Naoya, "A Dark Nights Passage"

A Thin Slice of Samsara

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

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

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

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

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

On the turntable: Chet Baker, "In Tokyo"

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

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

Sunday papers: G.K. Chesterton

There is no history; there are only historians.

On the turntable: T Bone Burnett, "Tooth of Crime"

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

Keyboard Cookie Crumbs

Mapmaking is Empire's way of taking inventory.

Reading a bad book can feel like sitting in traffic.

Spy a "Duck!" moving van driving down Karasuma.  Sure hope they don't move pianos.

On the turntable:  Thievery Corporation, "Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi"

On the nightable:  Georg Feuerstein,  "The Deeper Dimensions of Yoga"

On the reel table:  "Jeremiah Johnson"  (Pollack, 1972)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown VI

Awoke Valentine's Day to the warmth of April.  More specifically, the muggy tropical warmth of the April of Hong Kong.  We biked down the hill, jackets unzipped, hair finally freed from woolen caps, waving behind us all the way to the train station.  We were forced by JR to ride a series of trains and buses which took a ridiculous amount of time, due to their usual poor scheduling.  It amazes me how inconvenient this route is, despite being the main line between the tourist sites of Kyoto and Nara (with another, Uji, in the center), and penetrating into the heart of the suburban commuter Kansai Bermuda Triangle (if you include Osaka).    JR further showed its obliviousness to context by turning on the air conditioner, despite this being an early February morning.  A bus took us to a village whose name, Wazuka, loosely translates as "A bit."  We stood there looking up at the high mountain in front of us, ribbed with tea bushes stretching all the way up to the crest.  This tea represents about half of Uji's famous brand, and we'd need at least a cup in order to get to the top. 

The trail led up a narrow track rutted by the tires of small farm trucks.   On the crest, we had a quick lunch while sitting on a single iron rail used to transport tools up and to send freshly plucked tea leaves back down.  The descent down the other side was steep, leading eventually to a small village seated in a high valley.  This village was simply two rows of homes bisected by a single road, and to walk through it was to walk through any old Western film.  Next to a pond were a group of geese, two female, and a male who protectively challenged my approach, craning its neck and hissing.  I smiled and backed off, somewhat ashamed at ruining his date on this day reserved for lovers.  At the far end of the village, a light truck wheeled up, its elderly driver smiling at me and making conversation.  He seemed amazed to see me here, the huge smile never leaving his face.  Though we'd spend most of the day on roads, we'd see very few vehicles, and nearly all of them bore the teardrop mark of an aged driver.  We walked through rice paddies, some flecked by huge stones looking like the backs of breaching whales.   Before long another group of farm houses appeared, stretching out along this high plateau.   A sign told us that nearby were a Korean Confucian temple and the tantalizingly named "Fudo Falls," but they were far off our route today.  We did find the Pond of Benten, that muse of poets, whose festival day is traditionally in April, and today's warm weather gave us a taste.  

We descended now, dropping down for the next 2 hours, for the next 8 kilometers.  This middle portion was somewhat uninspiring, but for the occasional glimpses of mountains and mountains unfolding south toward Nara, Yoshino, and Kumano beyond.  With little to occupy us visually, we'd distract ourselves with rambling conversation.  A few words, a bit of passion, and boom! off we'd go.  We spent at least an hour debating Kipling's "East is east" quip.  At the bottom we found a busy road, then a trail which climbed up to some high marshy land.  The reeds rustled to a bossa nova rhythm, and amidst this beat we found a simple house standing where it was least likely to be found.  The owner no doubt prefers it this way, and the warm rusticity hints at a simple, satisfying life.  Where the reeds ended, more tea plantations began.  In the wooded areas between them we found a few bamboo cutter hard at work, one of them complaining to us that with the unseasonal warmth, the bamboo shoots would come early, and unless he pruned back their taller ancestors, the youngsters would never get enough space and light to survive.  A literal generation gap played out in the forest.  And we walked on into spring, with the plum blossoms being serenaded into bloom by the uguisu, tuning its rusty pipes for an early, and sudden return to the stage.

On the turntable:  "Lilliput"

Sunday papers: Brad Warner

"As a culture have started to drift back towards spirituality in the hopes that it might solve our troubles and bring us the fulfillment we seek. What we’ve forgotten as a culture is that spirituality already let us down. That’s why we became so materialistic in the first place."

On the turntable: Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha"

On the reel table: "The River" (Renoir, 1951)

Accidents Will Happen

There's a certain voyeuristic delight in watching Nick Cave sing. The way the veins in his head swell with every enunciation you half expect him to have a massive aneurysm at any moment. It's a guilty, razor's edge thrill, like watching auto racing, or attending an air show.

On the turntable: Jimmy Smith, "Groovin' at Small's Paradise"

On the nighttable: David Frawley, "Yoga and Ayurveda"

On the reel table: "The Soul of a Man" (Wenders, 2003)

North and South

Soul Flower Mononoke Summit was in town again, with Ainu musician Oki as the opening act.  I've long been wanting catch him live, after hearing his timeless beauty on "The Rough Guide to Japan" CD.  On stage he was a lone man with his thick bodied Tonkori,  cradling this bulky, 5-stringed log like a baby while finger-picking high notes with his right hand, picking the low end with his left.   The sound it made went beyond deep, to thick, to dense.  From the opening notes I was enchanted, swept away somewhat to the music native to my New Mexico home.  Other times I found myself amongst the high grass on the Siberian Steppe, the effect enhanced by the cicada-like chirping of someone's cell phone vibrating on a table nearby.  I had spent the weekend watching Scorsese's documentary series on The Blues, so there were also moments where I was on the Mississippi Delta, or in the deserts of Mali.   (Interesting how such an obscure style of music can draw comparisons from around the world.) 

To buffer his sound, he played through a series of effects. (Almost too much.  As stated by Felicity, it would've been nice to hear the same sounds that the Ainu heard 500 years ago.) Oki's singing through a delay was at times otherworldly, and more than once I found myself swaying as if in trance.  Little wonder the shamanistic influence on that region's art and culture.  Even his mukkuri, a distant relative of the polycultural mouth harp, when heard with effects, had all of the character of wind blowing through grass, vibrating in the same way that Tuvan throat-singing does.  And his heavier numbers reminded me some of the great jazz bassist Jaco Pastorius, and his live solo work.  I imagine that Oki too could play a mean stand-up bass.  He'll appear again at Kyoto's Metro in early April, so catch him if you can.

 

Soul Flower came on next and as usual, didn't disappoint.  I've written of them many times in these pages, and won't say much again.  When Oki joined them for a couple of their numbers, he seemed somewhat lost, and was buried too deep in the mix.  But when the band backed him up on his most famous song, it was seamless, and every eye of every band member was completely on him, and in their concentration, didn't miss a single change.  Very talented bunch.  The last piece was an Okinawan classic, but here too, Oki's sound was just too thick for the light touch of island music. It was like a fallen coconut tree, caught in the surf break, crashing heavily again and again on soft, gentle sand.

(Michael over at Deep Kyoto wrote about the club and the gig, both here and here.  The latter link, to Deep Kyoto, will help ensure that you never eat at home again.)

On the turntable:  Kazumi Watanabe, "Mo Bop II"

On the nighttable:  B.K.S. Iyengar, "Light on Life"

Sunday papers: Vivekananda

"If your freedom hurts others, you are not free."

On the turntable: Psychobaba, "Liveep"

Sunday papers: Peter Greenaway

"Against the disk of the full moon, even white birds are black."

-A Walk Through H

On the turntable: Modern Jazz Quartet, "Collection"

On the nighttable: Donald Richie, "Ozu" -

Song of the Water God

Tuesday night, Barna Ghita was in town, playing a gig up at Ei-U-In. The room looked different with the shoji shut, fortified against the cold. I'd been a fan of the band for nearly a decade but was absolutely stunned that one of the members was Jimi Miyashita, who I've gotten to know lately, without ever realizing that I'd long been swept away by the sounds of his strings. It was funny to watch him play something other than the traditional Indian ragas that he's famous for. With the Western time signature, his entire body language changed. As he bobbed and weaved to drummer Mabos' inticate rhythms, busily plucking at the ridiculously complicated santoor, he'd frequently look up and grin from behind his big butterfly sunglasses. Next to him, Uchida Bob stood on his small patch of carpet, kicking his leg up now and again as he made folk magic on his well-traveled guitar, the faded wooden body covered in stickers like the beams of a temple. He was the man I really came to see. Along with Soul Flower's Nakagawa Takashi, Bob's singing voice is the one I most covet. The highlight of the night for me was when Jimi was meticulously tuning his santoor between songs, with Bob and Mabo playing a low and soft blues, then the three of them immediately segued into the next song when Jimi was ready. Unbelievable talent, these three.

For years their music was in major rotation in my truck, as I tooled the back roads of Tottori, listening to Bob's rich, deep voice as it told me tales of trees and water. Back in 2001, a few weeks after the U.S. began its systematic revenge on Afghanistan, Bob came to the 'Nog and gave a concert in which he talked as much as sang, raging against war, that most natural of unnatural things. That night he stayed at my house. We awoke to a sunny day, filling up on pancakes and coffee as he reminisced about Nanao Sakaki and Gary Snyder. It was an tremendous moment for me, since Gary was my primary motivation in coming to Japan, and here was one of his best friends sitting in my living room, playing with my son, Ken. Later 3-year old Ken amazed me when, hearing Barna Ghita's latest CD a day or so later, said, "It's Bob, Daddy!" Incredible what kids notice.

So this week, I finally had the chance to meet Bob again, though I didn't want to bring him down by telling him that his playmate Ken is over 6 years gone. He mentioned his own dead, Nanao, saying that he was sad at his passing, but that hey, every day's a birthday, every day's a funeral. Both Nanao and Ken were close as he sang out the waning lines of "雨の小りす," repeating "Yurei, Yurei." Spirits, spirits.

On the turntable: Bharna Ghita, "Water Island"

On the nighttable: Steven Heighton, "Flight Paths of the Emperor"

On the reel table: "Wild Strawberries" (Bergman, 1957)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown X (Yama-no-be II)

Awoke Saturday to snow gently falling. If there's snow, it must be a day for tramping. We had intended to walk from Yagyu into Nara in time for the burning of Wakakusa-yama at dusk. There are only a few buses a day heading out there, leaving from Nara. As we made our way south, we nearly missed our connection since I hadn't noticed that my train pass had expired. Made the train in seconds flat, and later in Nara, walked up to the bus stop with plenty of time to spare, even more so when we saw that our 10:20 bus had left around 9:30, the next one leaving after lunch. Shit. As a friendly bus company employee led us through our alternatives, I thought that we could walk back to town from Tenri instead, if we could catch a train due to leave in three minutes. We sprinted through the station, me hurdling one of those wheeled suitcases as if in tribute to an old OJ Simpson Avis commercial. Ran up the platform in time to notice that the waiting train was finished for the morning. Huh? Are we not supposed to hike today?

The next train got us to Tenri. The rest of the day was a slow, pleasant walk along the Yama-no-be, darting in and out of the foothills. We once again passed through the arcade that time forgot (quite bustling today), bowed to Tenri Temple, where the metal on which banners wave groaned like the Sho pipes of Gagaku. Ate rice balls amongst the chickens at Isonokami Jingu. The northbound Yama-no-be wasn't as nice as the path we'd followed south of here, but it did keep us in the forest more. Unfortunately, we also spent nearly as much time on roads, though none particularly busy. Deeper in the hills behind Isonokami Jingu, a beautiful set of stone steps flaked and crumbled with age, leading to a shrine nearly invisible in the shadows. We'd pass many shrines, all small and well cared for like prized antiques, their histories going back to times inconceivable. I love Nara for this, the resonant history, not heavy with the veneer of Kyoto, but light and weathered, with a quiet dignity that is eternal. The forests and fields that surrounded these beauties were even quieter in the snow, falling with the consistency of powder, as if in our presence the shrines were throwing off their long accumulated dust.

Just beyond a strange art installation masquerading as a greenhouse, we came to a lake, where a few die-hard fishermen were braving the intense cold of the day. Just down the hill was a baseball field. As I walked by, about two dozen kids turned to me in surprise, the brims of their baseball caps the bright yellow bills of young duckings. They quacked out a greeting as I passed. Further off we could hear the singing of their older siblings as they began a game of their own. A valley away was Kōninji, the ancient path passing between buildings over a millenia old. The snow was doing some fantastic tricks in the light, so we sat awhile in admiration. This temple has some shugendo ancestry, with many esoteric symbols and statues dotting the grounds. We enjoyed the weather and the quiet, until a group of old timers came and broke it.

We walked on, past farms and villages. The entire walk was a love affair with Nara, in deep infatuation with her proud silence and faded beauty. In the Japanese language, few phrases are as misunderstood as mono-no-aware and wabi-sabi. These are concepts better felt than defined, and Nara is an excellent teacher. We wandered into the park, the deer napping and grazing while watching us with hopeful eyes. The sun ducked behind the ridges to entice the cold, which began to play with our cheeks and noses. We escaped into an Italian place to warm up with an uninspired meal of pasta and wine, then climbed back up to Kōfuku-ji, a good vantage point from which to see Wakakusa burn. Back in '96, I'd followed the Takisaka-no-michi into town in order to watch this annual event, but sudden rains called it off that year. Long awaited, it didn't disappoint; plus I hadn't expected fireworks. They went off with dull thuds, nowhere near the chest thumping bursts of warmer, thinner summertime air. After they were done, atop the mountain we saw a few flashes of light, and after a minute or so, flames began to reach up here and there, finally becoming a ring that burned up the hillside like a monk's tonsure. Miki and I hugged against the intense cold, watching the roof of the temple's main hall glow, backlit as if it too were ablaze, and the iron bell just behind us ringing and ringing...

...after the flames, we boarded a train home. A few stops on, a young mom pushed a pram onto the train, then gets busy with her keitai. Her baby looks at me, at her, then me, then her. Then bursts out crying. I nearly apologized for my face...

On the turntable: Double Famous, "Souvenir"

On the nighttable: Richard Rosen, "The Yoga of Breath"

On the reel table: Little Big Man (Penn, 1970)

Those who can't do...

Maybe it's an American trait, or perhaps everyone below a certain age does it , that attempt at self-perfection. I single out Americans because no other society invests so much money in shrinks and self-help books to help them deal with their consistently falling short. Being in the spiritual world is worse, checking your every thought and action against a checklist made up in a foreign culture thousands of years ago. As a teacher in said world, you are not only hard on yourself, but hard on your students as well. Every breath is a lesson.

So it is that I often take my teachering out onto the streets, as a deputized member of some non-existent morals police. I personally despise rudeness, and despite my strong belief in cultural relativism, I expect everyone to behave within certain guidelines. I'm not the only person who does this. I have friends in Tokyo who can't abide by pushing and shoving onto trains, to the extent that every commute becomes a Greek epic. As a bicycle commuter, what peeves my pet most is people who don't look where they are walking. Some folks simply dart straight out of a shop, some dawdle, others turn corners blindly. (When I become king of this land, my first decree will be that all feet and eyes must point in the same direction.) Cell phones and iPods have made the situation worse in that they've cut off an additional couple senses. When I encounter one of these ambulatory offenders, I will often give their arm a light brush as I pass by on my bike. I realize this is childish. This admittedly seems un-Buddhist, un-Yoga, but my roots stretch back into the deeper soil of the punk ethic of my youth. Besides, I am simply hoping that the person will wake up to the fact that they need to be a little more careful, a little more aware. And who better to teach awareness than a yoga teacher?

So yesterday, I ride up behind two men walking side by side, rudely blocking all but a small part of sidewalk. I pass to the left, brushing my shoulder against one of them, who is startled.

It is only then that I notice he's holding a white and red striped cane.

Today, I am the one who doesn't see.

Clarity. Awareness...

On the turntable: Cicala Mvta, "Deko Boko"

On the nighttable: Leigh Norrie, "Japan: 6000 miles on a Bicycle"

Play by Play

Missed the inauguration completely.  I figure that history will still happen even if I sleep.  Our correspondent was on hand with this account:

Loud cheers when "Departure of Pres. George W. Bush" flashes on CNN. Loud booing when Cheney wheeled out to limo. Loud laughter when Michelle Obama waves at Cheney rolling by. Cheering when limo door closes on Cheney. Cheering as George and Laura head toward the waiting helicopter. Booing as Bush attempts to kiss Michelle Obama on the lips. Michelle deflects kiss with last-second turn of head. Cheers. Louder cheers as Bush steps into helicopter. Still louder cheers as Obama and Michelle turn and walk away. "Close it tight," someone shouts as door pulled to helicopter pulls shut. More cheering as blades begin to turn. Faster, faster...

We have lift off. AND THE CROWD GOES WILD! Cheering, toasts. Not as loud as when Obama was sworn in, but loud enough for George to hear us from here, if he's listening, which he's not—because when did he ever listen?

On the turntable:  Petty Booka, "Fuijiyama Mama" 

On the nighttable:  Swami Rama, "The Science of Breath"

Times They Are a Changin'

Watching the archival footage of a civil rights era Dylan singing "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll." (Seen in Scorcese's "No Direction Home" or more recently recreated by Todd Haynes in "I'm Not There" (with John Coltrane's doppelganger over Christian Bale's left shoulder.)) I'm completely overwhelmed by the thought that that moment back in 1964 has a direct link with what will occur in Washington later today.

God is now on our side. Don't believe yet? Here's a refresher.

On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Don't Look Back"

Sattvic Life

On Sunday night, the 18th, I'll again be doing a lecture on yogic philosophy.  The theme this week is morality, namely, "Yamas and Niyamas"  At Green E Books, Kyoto.  

(Future talks may include Tibetan fashion:  "Lamas and Pajamas")

On the turntable:  Caetano Veloso, "Circulado ao Vivo"

Kumano Kōdō I (Prologue)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tokai Shizen Hoedown V

We walked out of Uji on concrete. Yet it was a pleasant walk, upstream along the Uji River rushing past toward the sea. This was a familiar route leading toward many of Uji's historic sites, and as such, there were more pedestrians than cars. We came to a fishing bridge suspended over the water, which we crossed then took the advice of a sign pointing us up a small trail, allowing us to forgo the busier road nearby. It was a lovely walk through the trees, between high narrow walls, a stream moving just below us. We eventually found the grave marker of an important but long forgotten princess, and the village of Shirakawa at her back. There was a small gate here, flecked with small holes that I at first took for the marks of bullets, though I know of no battles fought here. Miki corrected me in pointing out that the holes were the work of termites. The wild will eventually take this structure, no matter how old or historic. To emphasize this, a long stalk of weed had pushed itself through the wall of an abandoned house standing nearby. The gate gave us a clue as to the location of Hakusan Jinja, fortified somewhat by a deep circular moat and tall encircling trees. Atop the stairs was a unique structure, hexagonal, and covered in thatch but for an open cut at the top to let out cooking smoke. One of the biggest delights of tramping in Japan is coming across shrines like this one, remote yet well-kept. So well kept that it could stand here for 900 years. In front of one of the small shrines here were a couple of huge shells like those fired from a battleship. There was no indication of why they;'d been deified. Up the trail a bit we found a small crop of jizo, decorated with rice cakes and some slender strands of bamboo. This too is another highlight, these somewhat pagan rites known only to the locals and reaching back through time.

We came out of the forest to a huge cluster of tea bushes. A few small plants had a tripod-like covering of old rice stalks as protection from snow. We met the road again at the top of the filed, and here we stayed for the rest of the morning, but for a small trail taking us past a forestry station seemingly abandoned for the winter. A really old man rode his bike at incredible speed up a steep hill. We were amazed by this, then again as he raced back down. Past a chicken factory, the cacophony from within like an excited impatient audience before the symphony. A skittish dog foraged around the now abandoned "Green Village." The next town was of a decent size, but luckily the Hodō took us along its outskirts, bisecting older homes of some character. Two friends sat talking on the steps of a wooded shrine, signs at the perimeters warning of vipers. Huge tree trunks had been stacked in the lot of a large factory that makes Torii arches for shrines. Outside town, we spotted another grove, obviously a shrine. A group of young motorcyclists politely rode off as we approached. One of the ceders here was simply massive, wrapped with paper and straw to signify its status as a diety. How long had it been here, and what has it overlooked? The shrine below it was a youngster in comparison, erected in 1202.

The fields narrowed to become forest, and we made our way up a long, straight rise into the dark. The afternoon was getting on, and it began to appear that our maps were wrong. The Hodō is well marked these days, and easy to follow except in certain cases, so a map isn't really necessary. The book we were using was now 9 years old, and showed we were to bypass this mountain. The markers on the other hand looked to be only a few years old, and someone had decided to include this peak on the course. Jūbuzan was at 607 meters, not as big as some of the giants of the Nihon Alps, but Kyoto's Hiei was now covered in snow and is only slightly higher, I'd thought. (I checked. At 848m, it towers.) I worried at what we would find, and whether we'd get down before dark. I had a torch, but remembered only now that the batteries had died. We slogged on silently, spending 90 minutes moving at an angle across the mountain's face. Then the trail suddenly switch-backed and we were at a clearing near the top. I had been afraid to check the time, but it was just 3pm. No worries at all. We soon reached Kontaiji temple, the base for the Yamabushi who lie down in these mountains. A couple of them were enjoying a day off in a small room which was warm, but seemingly devoid of a heat source. One of the men was restlessly pacing in his shorts(!), and the other man, slightly older, was clacking away at his computer. They were both really friendly, the older one having just retired from his career in the Self Defense Forces. His humility and obvious intelligence suggested that he'd been an officer of high rank. He called his wife to make us tea and zoni, which warmed us as much as the conversation. Afterwards, we went up to the peak itself, standing above a cluster of buildings aging beautifully in the elements. Shugendo temples are always the most aesthetically pleasing: wordlessly expressing impermanence. From the peak we could see Biwa, Hiei, and even Kyoto, peeking up from beyond the Higashiyama range. In fact, from this vantage point, we could see the entire route we'd walked thus far, a nice auspicious start to 2009, this being our first tramp of the new year.

We dropped back to the temple and said our goodbyes. There is a big event here late summer, and hopefully we'll be back. Then we followed the trail down, running steep and wet, through the cedars. It levelled out pleasantly, and we came to a rise, the entire valley before us lined with tea plantations, their curved bushes running parallel up and down every hill like frantic caterpillars. It were struck by the beauty and lingered awhile, the sun backlighting all in yellow hues. As it dimmed, we worked our way down through the bushes to the village at the base of the mountain. It was near dark when we got to the bus stop, but with just enough light to hitch a ride to the train station a half hour away.

On the turntable: Tori Amos, "Higher Learning"

On the nighttable: Bruce Roscoe, "Windows on Japan"

On the reel table: "The Seventh Seal" (Bergman, 1956)

Kumano Prologue IV

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

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

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

On the turntable: Dave Brubeck, "Time Out'

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

'Round Midnight

We pass through the main gate of Shinnyodo near 11:30. The pagoda looms out of the dark, offset by the thin, darker tree twigs in front and grey-ish green sky behind, like some 30's German Expressionistic chiaroscuro. We find our place at the top of the steps of the temple's massive iron bell. We are standing below the log that is used to strike it. A few minutes later some monks come up, do a few chants, and grab hold of the rope attached to the log. They hit it on three, the arc of the swings going further and further past my head. The first peal of the bell hits me mid chest. It is hardly a peal. For a minute or more, the sound vibrates out of the dark, low and violent. The beams of wood holding the bell and the striker creak and groan above my head. I choose the wrong moment to remember that this structure is traditionally built, without nails. This is all repeated, again and again, as other monks take their turn. It is long before we too hold the rope, pull it back, and again, and again, building up the momentum. There is a strange machismo at work, not wanting the tone to be any softer than those of the people who came before. That's OK. This work of the ego will be washed away as the wood hits iron, along with 107 more of last year's well-earned sins.

We walk over to the statue of the crying Amida, which looks more upset in this low light. Then go stand by the fire, drinking some kind of tea, and trying to make out the faces of friends in the flickering dark. We find a few, and count down the new year. I feel post modern as I stare at the face of my cell phone. My count is a second behind everybody else's, my cell provider having already thoughtfully added a second to the old year. Miki and I kiss, then wander through the cemetery to Kurodana, our footfalls accompanied by the sound of bells ringing out all along the Higashiyama hills.

We awake early and bike over to Yoshida in order to catch the year's first sunrise. There is a small moon viewing deck behind a teahouse, facing east toward Daimonji. Luckily, there is no one else here, and we quietly sip our tea in the cold. The sky begins to lighten, revealing many familiar landmarks, including JesusChris coming out of the forest still dark. Unlike us, he's yet to go home. We wait on the sun's appearance. It's a cloudy morning. Giving up, the three of us wander amidst the old haunted stones of Takenaka Inarisha. Many of these stones have holes near the base, where the gods can freely come and go. Among them, we find a stone ox, an omen of good things.

JesusChris eventually heads toward his bed, but Miki and I move over to Nanzenji. Inside we find a couple dozen monks chanting, the depth of their voices filling the hall all the way up to the wide-eyed dragon painted on the ceiling. A priest of incredible years is bowing, his acolyte beside him, spinning a tray in his hands. The monks all then sit and begin to yell in wild loud voices, flicking their accordion-like sutra books back and forth in the way that a Vegas dealer shuffles cards. Some of these guys do it so quickly and adroitly that it looks like they have a waterfall between their hands.

We bike over to Nyaku-oji Shrine. A three-legged crow near the entrance hints at a connection with my beloved Kumano region down south. A few older timers are just getting the fire going. With every bow to the shrine, I get a touch of warmth on my bottom. We warm the top half with some sake and move along.

Partway down the Path of Philosophy the suns finally pops over the ridge, so we stop and pray again. Then on to KitaShirakawa Tenjingu, our local. Atop the high steps we find the wacky resident priest, his white robes matching the color of his long hair and wizard's beard. As he cleans up, he tells us he'd been awake most of the night. Hands joined together once again, hoping for some good tidings in this, our final year in Kyoto...

On the turntable: Portishead, "Three"

On the reel table: "Mon Oncle Antoine" (Jutra, 1971)

The Resolution will not be Televised

Happy Moo Year!