SHADOW OF A FLOWER

Sign out: a chronological copy of all my Japan blogs is up at http://www.ralphhoyte.net/Japan/Japan_Trip.html with a few more pictures. No chance of getting a film ready for the Tate presentation next week, may just take one exemplary episode and run that in something pedestrian like Powerpoint (Powerpoint actually has very interesting artistic potential as just something you can embed all sorts of stuff in and fire off at will), front it live dressed in my Samu-e (samu=work, samu-e= workclothes; samurai, eg, means 'somone who serves' ie works for the lord; Buddhist monks wear a samu-e for work period ie for 'samu'; I bought one in Japan's 2nd largest department store, Tobu, in Ikebukuro, Tokyo)

going North
mountains rise above
the golf course

'TAKE FREE'
it says across a girl's boobs
hmm ... better not

some none-posted snippets:

You are advised to wear 'bear bells' if you're walking in bear country in Japan. The bears don't necessarily want to kill you, but as they're short-sighted you might stumble into one round a bend in the track before it sees you, so it'll be frightened and attack and kill you. The 'bear bells' give an audible warning of your approach, so it has time to run away.

Actually, the real reason is that when the bear hears the bells it thinks you're a 'henryo' - a wandering monk - so it rushes up to you, bows deeply, does 6 full prostrations, straightens up, yells 'nen pi kan non rikki' ('I evoke the Great Defender's Mercy') and vanishes into the bushes...

fading hours of Hachiman Matsuri in Takayama
street vendors 'special offer'
chocolate bananas
teenage totty lights up the strip
hanging out on the street corners
paper blowing in the wind
a lone drunk snores on the river bank
look! a Koi carp
a heron investigates

"The building has the 4 floors but 7 layers and we are on the 2nd floor but on the 4th layer. In the Edo Period the Tokugawa shogunate strictly prohibited us from constructing buildings which had more than 3 floors. That is why the stairs which led to the 3rd floor had to be concealed." (explanation in guide to Myoryuji - Myoryu Temple - in Kanazawa, otherwise known as 'Ninjadera' because it has many trapdoors, tunnels, false exits etc to foil attackers as a first line of defence for the old castle. Actually nothing to do with 'ninja')

Hida-no-Sato (Hida Folk Village) on the outskirts of Takayama has dozens of traditional farmhouses from Hida Province and nearby provinces which were demolished then reconstructed on this large, sloping site. They're all beautifully maintained but it doesn't have the air of 'a museum', rather that of a working community. You walk into eg The Arai's house and expect the wife of the house to get up and offer you tea and there's 'farm clutter' behind the houses. Partly because they each have a smoking log fire in the firepit - the information board says this is necessary to, a) kill wood-boring insects and b) keep the ropes used to tie the rafters on tight. Japanese houses of the era had a firepit in the middle of the main 'room', no chimney - the smoke just rose thru' the open laths of the non-existent 'ceiling' and filtered through the thatch. They were very dark (no 'windows' and, of course, smoky. Because it was very dark, the Japanese aesthetic of the era was one of 'shadows' - the glint of gold, for example. When such objects are put in bright light they may seem almost garish - but they were never seen or meant to be seen like this (cf 'In Praise of Shadows' by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki). The smoke gives the wood a beautiful dark sheen. The blurb for the village says: "Japan's economy has recently made very rapid progress but our material success has caused us to think too little about the important spiritual side of life. We now realize we should pay more attention to our cutural heritage our ancestors have built up for centuries. We must return to some of our traditional modes of living. Not only must we revalue and preserve our heritage, but we must hand it on to future generations. That is why we have established this reservation. The quite atmosphere of this place gives you a restful and peaceful feeling. Here, all things are well harmonized with nature."

I spend hours photographing wood, straw, thatch, a woman thatcher tying bundles of straw to rethatch the Nishioka's house; eat lunch and fall asleep in the sun on a piece of sheet metal next to the Michigami's house. Then wander down to the craft village, where a craftswoman in a smock is training two apprentice weavers. Wonderful to watch the seriousness with which the Japanese take what they do, this feeling of a strong, beautiful craft being passed on, not something fake 'just for the benefit of the tourists'. Wonderful to watch a strong, serious craftswoman, a master at her work.

Gaultier (the making of)

As you could tell from my earlier post (The Sewing of Me), I am currently editing reams of footage I recorded whilst in Bosnia. I have found the process powerful, if a little disorientating. I'd be watching and editing the footage, then would take a walk, and wonder what am I doing in London. Part of me was relieved to be walking peacefully along the Thames, while my brain was processing sequences, conversations, dresses, coffees...
I'm also wondering how on earth to compile it all, so that it not only makes sense, but that others who will listen to my presentation will be able to feel and re-live the atmosphere. How to edit time, when people's relationship to time in Bosnia (or anywhere else) is in a way part of their character (national?)...And people in Bosnia DO take their time!
And so I freeze time. I love making stills from the video footage. And, here are stills from a clip, where my mother is explaining to me how she will make a copy of Jean Paul Gaultier's outfit I chose to wear for the presentation at the Tate. I thought it would be fitting to wear a copy of a designer outfit myself, as a sort of a costume for my performance.

The Sewing of Me

OKU-HOTAKA DAKE (3190M)

OK. Let's take a raincheck on this one. I'm nearly 9000 ft up in the Japanese Alps; on my own - last people I saw were heading down an hour ago; there's about 1/2 hour of daylight left; I've lost the track; and I'm stuck on a scree. Above me the cloud is swirling down and there's no sign of the supposed hut. Hmm. Perhaps I should've listened to the hut-girl at the Karasawa hut, now 800ft below...

I got to Karasawa at 14.40 after a beautiful 6 hour or so walk from Kamikochi (a high Alpine valley) via Yokoo-sanso, now way down in the lower valley, first following the Asuza-gawa river, then branching off to the West to ascend ever more steeply. The trail is well-marked with white paint circles on rocks and trees. The first mark I saw, a red 'O' with a yellow 'O' inside it I thought meant 'no entry' or 'tree due for the chop', then decided it meant 'do not smoke the trees' - which I had no intention of doing anyway. The hut-girl, who'd passed me twice, once on her way down the mountain, once on her way back up again ("I just felt like going for a walk to the bridge"!!) told me that it got dark at 5pm and that I should stay the night at Karasawa, get up early the next morning for the summit of Hataka, then go back down the same way as it'd take me 2 1/2 hrs to get up to the Hataka-dake-sanso hut. In any case, she said, the path over the peak then down the other side was not recommended. 'OK,' I thought, and settled down in the hut.

5 minutes later the mountain jerked me to my feet, I told the hut-girl I was going on, and left. What was I supposed to do for the next 1 3/4 hrs anyway? Look at her? Drink tea? If I didn't get up that night it'd blow my schedule anyway, I wouldn't get back down to Kamikochi before 4 or 5pm and not make Tokyo till very late. Then there's the 3rd or 4th Law of Mountain Walking which says: "Always gain as much height as you can when you can!" I forget the 1st, 2nd and 3rd ... probably one of them is: "Do not get yourself stuck on a bloody high mountain you don't know with dark falling and no trace of a path (!)". Another one certainly is: "If you have to cross a high mountain scree, keep those knees high and KEEP MOVING!" Except, of course, I could only make 5 or 10 yds before collapsing in exhaustion. Hmm...

I suppose it sounds boastful to say I wasn't afraid, but I wasn't - well, only somewhere round the edges. Something inside was quite coolly calculating the percentages: 'let's see now, you just passed a ruddy big rock with a slight concavity on the downhill side - if you are forced to bivowak then you should survive in there with all your clothes on until it gets light enough to move again'; 'it's full moon tonight, the cloud should clear with dark falling, you'll be able to see enough even after dark to continue on'; 'that ridge to your right ... if you follow it down you'll hit the path at some point'; 'the sketch map in the guide shows the main path I'm supposed to join following the top of the ridge I'm most of the way up - so long as you go straight up you have to hit it at some point'. Was I heading up for the right col at all? Well, I know I've got Hotaka on the left and some other peak on the right. I know I've got Karasawa immediately below. Also, the scree seems to be 'rounding off' not too far above me. I get my Indian Scout headdress on and scour the scree for clues: a scrap of plastic sticks out between the rocks, a bit of rope ... ah ha - a piece of glass from a beer bottle. Now, in general, the Japanese do not litter. I've seen none on the trail so far. So the fact that there are a few scraps here, and especially the beer bottle, would indicate a certain congregation of humans directly above. It might have been a will-o'-the wisp, but I thought I Aalso heard a mechanical noise way above my head some time ago, straight up. I'll continue up to where the scree rounds off and see what I can see.

I get off the scree onto the ridge to my right, pull myself up on rocks and tough, wiry grass, panting, then have to cross it again to what looks like a slightly more stable area. Don't set the whole thing in motion, that would be a megazaster! Peaks rimmed in settting sun. Seemingly solid rocks shift, slide away under my feet. Rest every time I reach a seemingly solid bit, then scutter on to the next. Get to place where it flattens off a bit and poke my head over the top: right in front of me, Hakata-dake-sanso, the hut.

Is it a mirage? I gasp up the last few metres of scree, clamber onto the wall and walk into the hut. The warden greets me and I register for the night. 7,300 yen with evening meal (about £37). An American, Scott, appears and greets me, too. Turns out he was an English teacher in Kyoto, saw an ad for a hut warden and got the job. Outside it's getting dark by the second, so I go and check the downtrail to see where the hell I got off it. Doesn't seem to be clear, tho', whether it, in fact, hugs the ridge I scrambled up or actually goes down the scree. But I can't believe the couple I saw much much earlier could have got down the scree - if it started to go you'd slide along with a road of locks till you hit Davy Jones Rocker ... or the Karasawa Hut anyway, 1000ft below. I go round the back of the hut to look West, see if there are any dragons.

The luminescent horzon is striated in bands of apricot, crystal, adamantine, chrysophagic chalcedony; merging into pumpkin, ortanique, deepest Muscat. And there are dragons. Their pimply snouts stick out above the sea of fluffy-wedding cloud, they bear the names Yari-dake, Tsurugi-dake, Onanji-yama...

Go in for dinner, join Japanese couple at table. Many, especially young Japanese women, have this very impulsive and playful demeanour. Sink 10 cups of green tea, 4 of black, hang out in the library, which has a very nice collection of climbing and mountain walking books and a gas heater. It was 6 degrees at Kamikochi and it's hovering around freezing up here. The hut is perched on a narrow col between Oku-hataka-dake, 3190m (you get to call it the familiar 'Hataka' once you've earned the right), and Karasawa-dake, 3110m, and, surprisingly, doesn't seem to get blown off by the icy blasts of winter or shrugged off by a twitch of the dragon's shoulder. It's got a heated toilet seat! Wow, I'm sitting on a heated toilet seat in a mountain hut at 3000m up in the Japanese Alps! The hut guys have gone crazy outside and are dancing around with sparklers and fireworks. I ask Scott if there's something to celebrate and he says, nah, it's just the isolation and altitude. It sends them nuts. If it had gone dark before I got up, the flashes would've guided me in right on the nose... Scott says the hut's closing for the season next week, he's off back to the Useless States of Amerikee to work in a department store or something for the winter, then back in April to reopen the hut. It'll take me 8 hours to go over Hotaka and down the other side to Kamikochi, he says, so I'll need an early start. I'm lucky - they usually have snow by mid-September up here. I'd never have made it if there'd been any. Roll out my futon on the sleeping platform along with the other overnighters, note with approval that it's mixed sex, pull nice thick quilt over me and attempt to sleep.

DRINGGGGG! Or, actually, lack of DRINGGGGG! I'd set my alarm for exactly 4.59 and I woke up at exactly 4.58. 'Mountain calling, this is your morning call! Hey, Hotaka here! Wanna see the sunrise from my top? Then get your great hairy arse outta the sack and get yer boots on!' Uh. Oh. Uff. I'd packed the night before, so within 10 minutes said goodbye to the hut, slid the door open and walked out into darkness with the faintest glimmering of light. The initial climb out of the col is more of a scramble, up freezing cold iron ladders, hanging onto chains, clutching rocks, but then eases off. The East is aglow in peach over a roil of cottonwool, the cloud layer being at least 1000ft below me. Peaks jut darkly out of the cloud-sea, one an active volcano with a black, wind-drifted plume of smoke parrallel to the horizon. I round a shoulder of Hotaka and suddenly see, perfectly framed by the mountain and a slope: FUJI! Surely it must be? No other mountain is so high and so perfectly cone shaped... she beckons incandescently out of shifting opalescent lamella even Hokusai's deftness could never reproduce accurately



To those who dare
wholly unexpected treasure is granted:
Fuji-san from Hotaka!

Hit peak finally just after 6am, just as the sun explodes over the horizon. I'm the third highest man in Japan (presuming someone's up the 2nd highest, surely someone'll be up Fuji)! Totally on my own. Funny, in this oh-so-crowded archipelago I've nearly always been on my own. Sunrise at Oku-hakata-dake, 3190m, 6.14 am, Thursday 20th October, 2005. A moment to treasure for the rest of my life. I take pictures then share the 'Gipfelwasser' with the mountain god (a jar of sake I'd bought in Matsumoto). More a German custom? 'Gipfelwasser = 'peak water' ie a Schluck of alcohol when you climb a peak): oblation on rocks in front of his shrine / cheers, old fellow! / mouthful for me / left rest for him. 2 Japanese guys from the hut now climbing up to join me, I greet them, say 'Yaboo, sucks, you missed the sunrise you lazy sons of guns you should've got up a bit earlier!' (well, play-act); they grin. I head off down to Mae-hotaka-dake to the SW, which is 300ft lower. It's a perfect day now, but I'm still grateful for the waymarkings - they add an 'X' to indicate 'NOT this way!'. The 'Daikiretto', which, according to the Lonely Planet 'Hiking in Japan' guide, is 'the most exhilarating (or the scariest) bit of hiking in Japan that does not require any specialist skills', is only a few miles north of where I was. It adds a skull and crossbones marking to indicate that those who went that way went the way of all flesh... you 'drop from 3033m to 2748m at the bottom of the hole, then back up to 3106' and there are 'steel laddders, chains and BIG drops'. I had been regretting not having 3 days to do this stretch as well, but as the Lonely Planet guide seems to be written for Jaunty Young Things With a Spring in their Step and a Song in their Hearts who vault from rock to rock over death-defying precipices like mountain goats, yodelling at the same time, not for middle-aged slowpokes like moi, I am now glad I didn't bite of more than I can chew. Their classification system needs redrafting for oldies: 'easy' means 'middling'; 'normal' means 'steep'; 'steep' means 'terrifying'; and 'exhilarating' means 'brown pants time'. I also consider recommending them to classify 'walks' as 'a one banana hike (1B)', two banana hike (2B)', 'three bananas' etc, judging by my rate of consumption. They'll probably conclude I'm a few bananas short of a bunch myself.

I reach, but do not ascend Mae-hotaka-dake (it'd take another 40 minutes and I'm worried about making an early bus from Kamikochi). The way ahead looks precipitous, but then I look back at what I've just come over, which looks even worse! Perhaps, as with so much of life, we project anxiety, whereas, step-by-step, it just somehow gets done. People, too, like the hut girl at Karasawa, will always try to get you to do 'what is best for you', they 'have your best interests at heart': avoid them, side-step them, and do what you need to do! When I have to make a decision I will make that decision and live with the consequences. That's a deal you make all the time, it's just more immediate and nearer in high mountains.

The trail turns West and drops. So this is what Lonely Planet considers 'steep'. It is, but there's no exposure and the rock is solid. Again, the too-steep bits have chains or iron ladders. The sun is gradually creeping into the Dake-sawa Valley in front of me, I can see the red-roofed Dake-sawa Hut crouched next to a dry river bed far below, then further, all the way down to Kamikochi nestled alongside the skein of the Asuza-gawa river. The sun gradually flattens the world out from that crisp, new, early morning sharpness, jagged arete against pumpkin dawn, black shadows on skeletal trees. I stop to take pictures but my battery proclaims it's 'exhausted'. Well, so am I, mate, but I gotta get down this here mountain! I take the battery out and stick it in an inside pocket to warm up, upon which it allows me a few more pictures.



Sit on rock and wait for 2 guys to chug slowly past. The first one sees me at the last minute and immediately strikes up a conversation in English. 'He's old,' he says, 'not so fast anymore.' They spent the night at Dake-sawa and are heading up the way I've come, over Hotaka, down to the Karasawa Hut for that night. 'Old' or not, I'm impressed. Mr First-Friendly takes some pictures of me on my rock and promises to email them to me at home in England (he does). His companion gives me some spicy sweets. I have my second meal of the day (bread, blueberry jam, German sausage, squashed banana), rehydrate with hut water and continue the unremitting descent to eventually arrive at the Dake-sawa Hut where I have the third meal of the day (bread, blueberry jam, German sausage, squashed banana). More of my front tooth breaks off. Nod to lone Ozzie woman hiker with massive backpack - she also spent the night at the Hotaka Hut, but in her tent (! obviously a mere toddle for her, this 'walk'!), recross boulder-strewn river course and gradually wind down through moss-crept pine, cedar and cryptomeria forest to where the track gives onto a tourist trail along the limpid sidestreams of the Asuza-gawa. Turn left, decide after 10 minutes it's wrong, ask some tourists and they say 'bus station right (nitwit)!', retrace my steps and stagger down to the Kappa-bashi Bridge. You can scarcely see any water for the swarms of day-trippers, photographing each other in front of the sights, painting watercolours on the river beach, picknicking, buying souvenirs. Roll finally into the bus terminal at 12.40, so it's taken me 7 1/2 hours from the Hotaka Hut, nearly the 8 Scott said. Book next bus out (13.20), usual bus confusion but eventually get on right one which links to train at Shinshimashima, fall asleep.

After usual Japanese frightening efficiency arrive in Matsumoto at 15.17 where I book my onward bus ticket to Shinjuko, Tokyo for 16.20 (3,400 yen = £17), buy some rice crackers etc to take back to England, pick up the rest of my luggage from the locker I'd left it in 2 days earlier and catch bus. 3 1/2 hours later I'm disgorged onto the streets of Tokyo - another planet, I can tell you! - beneath 55 floor superscrapers. Muddle my way via JR and the Yamanote Line to Ikebukuro and pitch up at the pre-booked Kimi Ryokan, a world away from the domain of the mountain gods. The next day Mike and Yoko take me to the site of Basho's old hut alongside the Sumidagawa (river) in the days when 'Tokyo' was called 'Edo' and was further to the West, around the 3 rivers which flow into Tokyo Bay. So at the end I come to the beginning, where Bassho started out in the Spring of 1689.

At the end
the beginning
bubble-eyed hyper-cruiser takes Basho upriver

I fart around with American Express (again). 'If you want to withdraw money press 1; if you want to speak to an operator, press 2; if you're stranded in Tokyo with no money because American Express won't give you any in spite of the fact that there's lots on the card then go to hell...' This so exhausts me (American Express website locks me out, have to phone America) and puts me in such a bad mood that I can't deal with Tokyo W-2-W crowds as well, so don't see any of the sights; do some shopping, go for great walk with Mike in some hills just out of Tokyo. Leave Kimi Ryokan 6.15am 24 October, take train to wrong terminal (KLM flies from Terminal 1, not 2! Can't you read? R-2-R exchange), free bus to right terminal, get on plane. 13 hours later I'm 1/2 hour late into Schiphol, Amsterdam, so rush to catch connection to Bristol in 20 minutes. 16.30 local time, 00.30 Tokyo time. Home.

Need to thrash my son at tennis
clean kitchen floor
hope my wife hasn't found out she doesn't need me

JAPAN: DANCING WITH SUTRA STANDS IN FRONT OF DOGEN'S ASHES

Eihei-ji
Factory for producing priests
time to sell up, move on

I suppose I wanted to say I had no expectations of Eihei-ji. After all, I knew that it is one of the most imporatnt Soto-Zen centres in the world. You just have to do the math. Number of temples in, eg, Kanazawa? Say 67. Multiply that by the number of Japanese towns, villages and cities and you come out with a mega-wattage of temples. Divide by proportion of Soto-Zen temples and you reduce it, sure, but that's still an awful lot of priests to be trained. Someone has to look after them temples, officiate at ceremonies for the dead, polish the Buddha's nose, replenish the incense. But I had to go. This was Eihei-ji, for chrissakes, founded by the chief turkey himself, Dogen, back in 1244 or roundabouts, the initiator of the whole Soto shebang.

The historical Buddha. Dogen. Completely revolutionary thinkers. Revolutionaries. But they spawned Institutions, power structures, hierarchies, systems. The fate of all revolutionaries? Maybe the true revolutionaries just vanish without trace. Tradition, fine. Doing-what-you're-doing, fine. But there's a well-known saying that the line between the sublime and the ridiculous is a very fine one.

At eihei-ji in the Joyoden, the Mausoleum where Dogen's (and his successors) ashes are preserved, two senior monks are teaching the novices the correct way to carry a sutra stand around. You approach it, poise with one foot back, toes arched on the ground, the forward knee bent, so you bend with a straight back; pick up the stand with your left hand about half-way down, fold the other hand just so across your left shoulder blade, elevate your body, swivel on your heel, glide soundlessly towards the door with one foot exactly in line with the other, left turn, glide, put stand down. Two monks with 3 novices each. I come back 1/2 hour later and they're still at it.

It has, perhaps, a certain charm. But did Dogen really come back from China to teach monks how to dance with sutra stands? Undoubtedly I contradict myself. I can be moved to tears by four dancing girls in Takayama, and those intricate, flowing, easy movements will have taken years to learn to such perfection. Still something jars. That's not the same. All has become form. I know that the way of the East is that you first learn The Art, then you transcend The Art. First you learn Zen, then you transcend Zen. But in Zen there is nothing to transcend.

Feel lonely
do zazen
sound of water

JAPAN: VACUOUS CRAP

The Kanazawa 21st Century Gallery of Contemporary Fart, er, Art vs Kenroku-en the sublime. Ding! Seconds out!

Well, says it all, doesn't it? Why do they bother? Nothing in the whole gallery remotedly touched me. There is a sort of 'artist' who specializes in vacuous crap, de-void of any sort of quality. Actually, 'crap' is too good a word for it. Crap breaks down into something useful. Gerhard Richter. Awful. The 'explanatory notes', as usual in this sort of place, an artform in their own right, a type of 'literary' genre which in no way connects with what you're (not) seeing. Self-conscious juvenile cliched angst from stupid Americans. Japanese 'Look-At-Me-I'm-So-PoMo' Installation Art. I'm beginning to dread the word 'installation'. This one's a recreated seascape in the obligatory blackbox downstairs. Yes? I think of endlessly changing, endlessly self-re-creating Portreath in North Cornwall, the tide sweeping us tourists up the beach stage by stage till we're all perched cheek bu jowl on the few remaining rocks. Now there's life, movement, endless variety. This installation is dead, lifeless. It stinks, literally and metaphorically. "Yes, but part of Art's role is to displace context." Go for a swim at Portreath, that'll soon displace your precious 'context'!

Ah, Anish Kapoor. 'The Origin of the World', 'a huge black hall (sic) will appear in the air from the sloping wall'. It's a vagina. Well OK, the scale and the fact that it's sloping make an impression. But it's perfectly symmetrical in shape and in the space. 'The Origin of the World' (ie the vagina) is not symmetrical, dear Anish, have you looked at one recently? Anyway, it's an old advertising trick: wanna impress the client? Blow it up real big, that'll knock his socks off! Further, it's supposed to express 'Nothingness'. Bit of a cheek to talk about 'Nothingness' in this land of sunyata, so desu ne? Oh Sariputra...

Anish he say
Universe full of black hole
I say, well, fuck that!

(Could be considered a perfect Haiku as it's 5-7-5 syllables, but the Japanese don't actually measure 'syllables' in Haiku, they measure 'onji' which is not the same thing)

Then more 'decontextualisation'. A courtyard with what looks like a small swimming pool. You follow an underground passage and come out under the pool, which is actually 10cm of moving water over a pane of glass. To people on top it looks as if you're under the water, to you it looks as if you're under the water, too. Fine. The creator schlepps this sort of thing around the white cube circuit for probably squidrillions of dollars (I'm not saying the creator gets squidrillions of dollars, but installing this kind of thing costs a lot of money and takes a lot of space). Category 'playing with preconceived ideas' etc.

But we're literally just over the road from one of the most famous gardens in history, Kenroku-en, dating from 1676. Has the artist LOOKED at Japanese gardens, the use of the different elements, the way the water is directed, the rocks, bridges, trees, Koi carp? And if Leandro Erlich has looked, then he has not SEEN. They are subtle beyond belief, beyond understanding. Your pool, dear artist, doesn't reference this at all. It's a simple, one-horse idea and all it references is YOU. I was more moved when visiting the Sea Aquarium at Minehead (I think), where you walk under the aquarium and see sharks and manta rays lazily flap around and over you. It brings back such deep ancestral memories of when we breathed water

After Japan
I'm not taking any crap
from so-called 'artists'

JAPAN: Ordinary Consciousness Fine

Some vignettes:

Roll into Takayama Bus Station at 6/30 pm. Ask young couple where the YH is and they say 'straight down the road, can't miss it'. Dump stuff, freshen up, go to look for something to eat. Soba Bar, Kirin biiru, soba noodles and prawn tempura. Brassy number in short black skirt and very high heels flounces in, so I ask her if she speaks Ingrish, which she does. So we do. Flounces out again with a smile and a wriggle. Older woman, well done up 'with an air' comes in, eyes me up, chats to the mama-san. I'm starting to get the picture: must be 'a certain part of town'. Uh huh. Any man that lot get their well manicured highly polished claws into wouldn't last 10 seconds. Sucked dry and spat out. Phut. Come to think of it, brassy number had a very deep voice for a woman, especially a Japanese woman...

Japanese maps and leaflets, tho' ostensibly full of information don't actually make much sense. The festival Information for the festival in Takayama said there would be a procession at 1 o'clock and had the route on the map marked out with little arrows. Fine. I position myself along marked route and wait. And wait. No procession. I go off to river bank and have a snooze. Learn later there was a procession, but it was a different route. The black arows were the night procession. In Kanazawa, where I am now, there are numerous maps in English. Trouble is, none of them relate to each other. In fact, some of them seem to be the mirror image of each other. In one the main rivers at top left, in others it's top right. The guide to Kenrokuen (marvellous garden) has pictures of the highlights along the edges ... but doesn't say where they are in the garden. I actually think it's because their 'frame' is different. They probably make perfect Japanese sense but not European sense. What is a map, anyway, if not a picture of the inside of someone's head? Even their hand gestures are confusing. At the Ninja Temple in Kanazawa, the guide signs to me with a hand gesture, but I don't know whether she's saying come over here, or go over there, so I join the group she's leading, then she tells me to join the other group, so she was saying 'please go over there kudasai'.

I'll 'report back' on the Hachiman Matsuri (The Autumn, or Harvest Festival) in Takayama later. They display, then push and pull house-high massively wheeled constructions (to call them 'festival floats' would give the wrong picture, they're much more than 'floats') through the streets for two days, thanking the god from the main shrine for his beneficience in the harvest, showing him the neighbourhood; the night procession with the floats lit up with Chinese Lanterns attracts around 1/2 million people, so you can imagine!

I do my washing at the YH, want to hang it out to dry upstairs but the warden scolds me. 'No, not there - outside!' I can't find outside so she sends her daughter to show me. Wander off to what the programme proclaims is a 'Marionette Performance'. The main piece has incredibly intricate puppets controlled by 6 puppeteers at the same time. But when I get there it's jam-packed, so I wander off and stumble across an unannounced processeion: the god's travelling around his domain in much smaller, blue-cloaked carts pulled each by one man. He's accompanied by his kamikose (guardians of the god) in traditional garb - sticky-out shoulder blades (not pads) and large, shallow straw hats; vestal virgins (literally - young girls done up to the absolute nines in long white flowing gowns with flowers in their hair...), loads of little boys in patchy coloured gowns banging gongs and drums, dignified older men in Edo-time dress (Edo - 1655), long swords scraping the pavement with an eerie zishing noise ... and lion dancers at the front. They obviously have a list of places which want to have their demons exorcised (ie they've paid the dancers to come and do it!), so they wend their way slowly around the neighbourhood, doing the lion dance at each of these places. They end up at a staged area alongside a small river, opposite a temple on the other bank and conduct a most beautiful, haunting and moving service. On the left the nusicians, with shaku-hachi (bamboo flutes), small drums, cymbals and gongs; in front of them right next to the altar, 4 specially chosen vestal virgins; on the right the older men and dignitaries, all in Edo-style costume. There are actually few onlookers today, and at one stage, we are allowed into the inner sanctum, nearly up to the stage. The service seems appropriate, fitting. it's not verbose and long, but graceful and flowing. The best bit is when the 4 vestal virgins (literally 'handmaids of the god') get up and dance for the god. Ineffably gracious and moving; fans in hand, intricate foot movements, now two to the left, two to the right, sway, form a different combination; intricate movements in perfect synchronity over a long period. That angle of the head, and a flowing line from inclned head (to the left), along white sammite-draped arm, to fan, flick of fan, shake of four fans, snap audibly shut, sinuous dip to the left, head upright, glide sideways and turn. I was crying - if I were a god I'd be saying "yes, that angle, yes, that movement, that ripple of movement!" The girls glide back to their place in front of the musicians and the head honcho comes to sentre stage, sits, bows deeply, and that's that. The little boys scamper off into the temple for some nosh, leaving their accoutrements haphazardly and beautifully draped across age-blackened cedar steps.

some advice:
if you wanna get enlightened
have breakfast first!

If you're not in possession of one vital piece of information, the whole system collapses - and especially if you haven't had any breakfast! I spent a very frustrating hour or so trying to get money at a post office ATM in Kanazawa. I wanted about 500 quid, and it would only give me 200. After loadsa mucking around between a very helpful PO guy, me, the ATM machine and two phone booths, I had to ring America. I was worried that the money I'd loaded onto the American Express travellers cheque card was wrong, and I wouldn't have enough dosh for the rest of the trip. America quickly told me that there was a limit of $440/day. Phew ... one vital piece of information I had not had ...

Desperate for coffee to soothe/drug my jangling nerves I barge into the oh-so-sophisticated Kanazawa 21st Century Museum of Contemporary Art's minimal white restaurant. Greeted by Liquid-Eyed Beauty who bows to me. "Irashaimasu" "Kohi," I gasp, "kohi!" She picks up the menu and points to 'coffee'. "Ikura desu ka" I ask - I know if one has to ask the price of coffee in ueber-trendy pure white cubes then one is de-fi-ni-tely not trendy, but I'm past caring. Anyway, being a Great Hairy Northern Barbarian gives one certain privileges denied to the populace at large. "450 yen," she says (about 2.25). "Iie," I say, "too expensive! Anywhere cheaper?" She giggles. "Ah," she says, takes me by the hand, pulls me to one side and points over the road. "There!" she says. That's the 2nd Liquid-Eyed Beauty who's taken me by the hand! I LOVE being taken by the hand by Liquid-Eyed Beauties! I leave, with great regret, cross the road to a soothing, slightly-faded Establishment for the Untrendy. "Kohi?" I ask again. "Hai - 350 yen." Ah well, saved myself all of 50p - but at least I didn't have to pretend I was trendy. And I'd rather support little old ladies in slightly faded establishments that the 'arts as big business' elite in trendy white cubes ...

Can't get used to the idea that 'the wall' is 'the door' and 'the door' is 'the wall'. Japanese girl at youth hostel in Takayama gets up from breakfast and walks through the wall. "Uh???" 'Oh, the wall is the door is the wall, OK" All the Europeans at the hostel trooped in and out through what we'd conceptualised as 'the door', ie. the two more prominent panels at 'the front' of the dining 'room'. But 'wall' and 'door' and 'front' and 'back' and 'side' have no meaning in a space which you can treat any which way you want! Her geting up and walking through the wall gave me that instant jarring sense of dislocation, as if you're syddenly in another Univesrse where Time and Space have different - or no - coordinates. Reminds me of a play I saw long ago in Bristol. It was a good old English drawing-room farce a la Oscar Wilde. The inner walls of the house were deliniated by strips of tape on the stage. Throughout the whole play, the actors acted as if these were real walls. and we, the audience, accepted them as such. So, for example, if a conversation took place in one 'room' we accepted that the person in the next 'room' couldn't hear the conversation. Led, of course, to some interesting plot developments, because the audience knew what the person who couldn't hear in the 'other room' didn't know ... but anyway. In the final act of the play, the actors casually stepped THROUGH the 'walls' into the other rooms ie, over the strip of tape we'd accepted as 'walls'! Uhuhuhuh ... that whirring sense of Universes shifting

lack of sleep and breakfast
may lead to 'change of consciousness'
but ordinary consciousness fine

Stock take

Journey finished.

12 rolls of film
15 dv tapes = 18 hours of footage
625 digital photographs
1 outfit, Jean Paul Gaultier

When does a necessary journey end?

Never.

Arriving is as important as leaving.

I have arrived but am still away.

Process of reassesment.

Transitional times.

BUDDHIST ETHICS

computers!you can keep 'em! library computer filter doesn't like Nec Journeys blog, maybe 'cos Margareta was swearing? Or me? Maybe it thinks 'art' is a dirty word? Margaret's pictures of beautiful women? Who know? So I write the whole thing in Yahoo and save it as a draft file. Computer at YHA won't open draft files. Fine. Back to library, email it to myself. YHA won't open Necessary Journeys blog. It is Margareta's beautiful women! (by the way there's an area near Takayama called 'Beautiful Woman Plateau' but I don't have time to check it out - the YHA filter won't let you look at pictures, the Japanese guy sharing the room says. He tries to hack the filter, but can't. I have to go to the information at the station, where I am now, where they have an open access laptop. Tralala. And then it completely scrambles the formatting!!! So - happy unscrambling!

Niigata train gets in at 20.07
Nagaoka train leaves at 20.12
Would I make that in Britain?
Would I hell!

Left Tsuruoka and headed south. Long trip. Train left at 18.30, got into Unazuki-onsen at 08.29. Huh? 13hours?! I check timetable again - oh, 7 1/2 hour wait for connection at Nagaoka. 23.00-ish to 06.55 the next morning. I decide to doss in waiting room at Nagaoka.Wouldn't really recommend this anywhere, but in Japan it's OK. The station is deserted. Some guy appears at some stage and dosses down with me in the waitingroom. I sleep scarcely a wink, keep waking up and reading 'Soul Mountain' by Gao Xingjian. Head forInland Sea, walking along the deserted streets of Nagaoka at 5 in the morning. Sun coming up, JapaneseAlps ranked upon rank on the city horizon. Touch the water - I've made it across the width of Japan! It's as warm as a warm bath. After a fair amount of confusion, changing trains, conductors shunting me onto the right train etc, arrive in Unazuki-onsen.Head for Information Office and book myself intoKuronagi-onsen Ryokan. It's a mini-train ride up the gorge then a 20 minute hike on this path hanging offthe edge of the gorge. The Ryokan is the only building right next to a side river, view from my window of two waterfalls and the crystal clear river itself, flowing over stones. Precipitous slopes climb up on both sides, thickly forested with Mischwald, mixeddeciduous forest. No sound but that of the river.

feel lonely
do zazen
sound of water

This poem says that when you do zazen there is noseparation. To talk about things, relate to them inthe human world, we separate them out, name them, makethem into pictures on the TV screen in our heads. Butthey're not separate, we're not separate.

feel lonely
do zazen
sound of water

In the constant struggle between 'the individual' and'society' there are a few ruses the individual can useto create personal space. In more liberal millieusthere is enough 'slack' in the system to allow theindividual to duck and weave, lightly camouflageoneself, pay lip service to society's demands and geton with whatever lights your fire. In more repressivesocieties it gets more difficult. In revolutionarysocieties or the exceedingly repressive it's basicallyimpossible (cultural revolution in China, forexample). Still, the individual needs the group ('society'), andmost especially if you have children, parents,brothers, sister, aunts - in fact everyone needs groupsupport of one kind or another and more especially atsome critical times in their lives. But what is theprice? You cannot be what you want to be, what you mayin fact be - you have to present a mask which theother Homo sapiens will accept. I don't know why thishas to be a mask, but it seems it does. It's likethere's some elaborate charade going on: I know thatyou know that I know that you are not that which youpresent and you know that I know that he knows thatshe knows that I know that it's not like that at allbut we all in general still want you to pretend thatthe you you are presenting to the me that I ampresenting is what I have been accultured to accept...

Rainer Maria Rilke says it better, of course:

DIE ACHTE ELEGIE(Rudolf Kassner zugeeignet)

Mit alien Augen sieht die Kreatur das Offene. Nurunsre Augen sind wieumgekehrt and ganz um sie gestelltals Fallen, rings um ihren freien Ausgang. Wasdraussen ist, wir wissens aus des Tiers Antlitzallein; denn schon das fruehe Kind wenden wir um andzwingens, dass es ruckwarts Gestaltung sehe, nicht dasOffne, das im Tiergesicht so tief ist. Frei von Tod. Ihn sehen wir allein; das freie Tier hat seinenUntergang stets hinter sich and vor sich Gott, andwenn es geht, so gehts in Ewigkeit, so wie die Brunnen gehen. Wir habennie, nicht einen einzigen Tag, den reinen Raum voruns, in den die Blumen unendlich aufgehn. Immer ist esWelt and niemals Nirgends ohne Nicht: das Reine,Unuberwachte, das man atmet and unendlich weiss andnicht begehrt.
[Duino Elegies: The Eighth Elegy – 55]

THE EIGHTH ELEGY(Dedicated to Rudolf Kassner)(my translation)

All other creatures see The Open with the whole oftheir eyes. But our eyes, turned inward, are set allaround it like snares, blocking its way out tofreedom. We know what's out there only from theanimal's face; for we take even the youngest child,turn him around and force him to look backwards atappearances, not that openness so deep within ananimal's face. Free from death, this, only we see; thefree animal always has its destruction behind and Godahead, and when it moves, it moves toward eternity like flowing water. Not for asingle day, no, never do we have that pure space aheadof us, into which flowers endlessly open. It is alwaysWorld and never Nowhere without No: that pure,unguarded space we breathe, always know, and neednever crave

So where's the rub? Society is clearly willing tosupport people who do not materially contribute:priests, swamis, gurus, fakirs, estate agents ... soone 'way out' is to become one of these categories.But you're still caught. You may well find that thesecategories are even more rigidly organised as asub-set of society than the wider society you aretrying to leave. Priests have canons, verges .. no,roads have them - vergers, bishops, conclaves,cardinals, popes around and over them. OK, I'll becomea Hells Angel. Wait a minute - I have to conform towhat Hells Angels are supposed to be like. I have todrink, swear, mow down little children, beat peopleup, drink like a fish, ride a hog (a Harley), act meanand ugly. Ditto to being a hippy. Ditto with being ananarchist. In fact, the only way to be a realanarchist is not to be an anarchist - now that'sanarchy! Anarcho eco-warrior animal rightists have toadopt the group-agreed mindset. So where's individualfreedom? I know, I'll become a Zen Buddhist! Myfriend, Zen Buddhism has a longer history thanChristianity. Trot off to Japan, join a temple - andbloody well do what you're told!

Why? Free-thinking individuals like the hysterical, er,sorry, historical Buddha,or like Dogen, start thingsde novo (from the beginning). They are Reformists,they start things off afresh. They start The New. Thentheir acolytes congeal around this freedom, codifywhat 'The Master' says/does, rigidify it into'Tradition', ie a 'system', a power structure. Thisgoes on for an aeon or two till the whole thing getsso stupid another reformer comes along and starts thewhole process off anew. Nothing interests human beingsmore than STATUS within monkey society, power. Theerstwhile freethinker, reformist is sanctified, ordeified ... made untouchable, unquestionable. Sure -watch the trick: the system may codify that you canmaul the founder ('Kill the Buddha' is such a one) -but this is codified WITHIN THE SYSTEM ie there is nomore freedom in this than saying three hail Mary's. Aprime example of this was when I was on an IZAUK(International Zen Association UK - Taisen Deshimaru'slot) sesshin (retreat) a lot of years ago. On thepenultimate day they hauled out a trayful of lambchops for dinner (the Buddhist retreats I've been onhave always been strictly vegetarian). I must'velooked a bit quizzical because it was explained to methat Taisen Deshimaru used to say, "mustn't berigid!". What had they done? They'd codified hispractice into their system. They should've servedkosher veggy grub - that would be killing the Buddha,that would be 'not-being-rigid'!

I am not advocating ‘do what you will be the whole ofthe truth’, I am not talking ‘universal solutions’, Iam talking about freedom. Quite obviously, societyneeds traffic lights, policemen, judges, schools,bosses… in the YH last night a group of late arrivalswere laughing and talking in the common space wayafter official lights-out. I lay in bed for a while,trying to get to sleep and then stormed out and toldthem to shut the fuck up.

Where's the freedom? In Buddhist Ethics? BuddhistEthics consists in doing the right thing in the rightplace at the right time. What's the right thing,where's the right place and when's the right time? Theright time is NOW, the right place is HERE, and theright thing to do is what you do HERE and NOW. That'sBuddhist Ethics sorted.

And the Buddhist Dharma (ie Path or Teachings)? TheBuddha was a bloke who said, "hey, hang on a mo',there's something funny going on here." That's theBuddhist Dharma sorted.

At 6 o'clock the Buddha in the temple I'm staying in in Takayama
gets up and starts banging away. "Where'smy clean underwear?"
he grumps at his wife. "What'sfor breakfast? Damn - forgot to get
any milk out of the freezer last night! Kids upyet?"I can't sleep
through that racket, get up, go fora pee.
(The YHA in Takayama is a practicing temple. They getup and start banging the gong downstairs and chantingat 6 am in the morning)

Back at Kuronagi-onsen Ryokan I grab towel,head for rotemburo. A 'rotemburo' is a mixed open-air hot bath.This one's right by the side of the river, set amongstlarge boulders, steaming hot. No-one in it. Damn. Anice female or two would've been nice. I strip, washby the river and jump in. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh whewwwwwwwwgeeeeeee yahoooooooo. Not even any kappas around, asfar as I can see. 'kappas' are mountain pool sprites,but they're not very nice. They, er, pull your liverdown through your arse and eat it (well, the LonelyPlanet guide says they do!). Kappas have a cavity ontop of their heads which has water in, and it's fromthis that they derive their magical power.Fortunately, all you have to do if you meet a kappa isbow deeply to it. As it's Japanese, it's compelled tobow deeply in return, on which the water in the cavityruns out and it can't eat your liver! So that's OK.

I have a nice hot soak, return to Ryokan and have aloooooong snoooooze.

Universe got constipated
excreted human
suff, what have we here?

I suppose poets are apart, by choice and temperament.A certain distance is required, a sense of aloneness,a certain ragged way with the Universe, a jaundicedeye; a sense 'of the left' or 'to the left'. Sinister.Ability to pay attention to insignificance. Sense ofskewedness, off-set-ness; unwillingness to believewhat others seem to believe so easily

a certain stink
must be humans around

Leaving Kuronagi-onsen
Little light-brown frogs
jump out of my way

No, I insist. Beauty is offset. A 'beauty spot' on theside of a beautiful woman's face. Zuiganji offset tothe left. Entsuin, the path staggered in three's tothe left. The glaze on the vase at Kusakabe Mingei-kanat Yoshijima-ke in Takayama: a random dribble down theside of the vase. If Japan never contributed anythingelse to world culture this random dribble would beenough! A selection rice crackers I bought are packednot so that each row is the same, but offset, sothere’s an irregular line down the packet …. Beauty.Life is offset to the left of the Universe, thenecessary sour note in the cosmic harmony. Acousticengineers say we cannot hear a pure note - we needsomething which jars, something offset to hear.

The Buddha, the Perfect One, left his wife and childto seek an answer, to seek 'Enlightenment'. So it iswritten. He was wrong. Humans are weak and needy andoffset to the left.

Humans. Snake in grass of Universe
Bang gong
Do zazen

Buddha he make joke
burekfasto 7 o'clock, not 7.30
break off zazen, eat burekfasto!

HAGURO-SAN

Gassan to Hagurosan
all day long
I trudge from death to life

Now in TAKAYAMA where there`s a big festival on, the Hachiman Matsuri. 3 days of wheeling massive floats 9m high around the streets plus smaller ones, kids singing, smaller cart-floats, exquisitely decorated. The god or gods are taken out of the shrine, shown the neighbourhood and wheeled back in again. Basho wasn`t here, but I was: it`s the only festival anywhere near my route so I came off the route to come and see it. More on that later. I can hear them still gonging away in town from where I`m sitting, but I`m a bit festivalled out right now. Haguro-san The hotel BAV (Beateous Angelic Vision) got me was a ski-hotel right in front of the baby-run. I`m still having difficulty combining pictures of Japanese yippies in the latest ski-trendy outfits zipping down the hill next to the gods of the three mountains, but, hey, maybe the gods get their skis on and join them. In Japan this is quite possible. The hotel manager said , "call me Kazuo" and gave me a nice room, Japane se style (tatami mating, roll out futon, electronic toilet which squirts your undercarriage with warm water ... eyowwuuuuu!!!

Had to break off there, was using computer in YH. Now in central library in Takayama. Man, you should see the facilities they have here! Except, of course, their bloody censor filter doesn`t like the Necessary Journeys blog and won`t let me on. Tralala. Try explaining that in Japanese!!! So, 'ever resourceful' being my motto, otherwise called being bloody-minded and won`t take`no` for an answer I`m writing this in Yahoo and will save as a draft email, then paste it over when and where I can, probably from the YH. Ain't technology wonderful?

To continue. Had bath in male communal bath, changed into yukata. Went down for Japanese dinner. Everyone in the room, male and female, all dressed in their yukatas. Wonderful. Except, if you're a man, you have to remember to keep your legs together, otherwise your, er, undercarriage shows. Doesn't come naturally to Great Hairy Northern Barbarian used to the male territorial gesture of spreading your hairy legs to occupy as much territory as possible. Ugg. Actually, Japanese men take up just as much space as any others - what they do is pull their yukatas round their legs. Dunno how they stop it slipping, tho'. Really enjoyed the meal, which consisted of the usual assortment of dishes in small quantities. Getting used to this very refined way of eating - you mix n' match the flavours as you desire. Raw fish (sushi) with explosively hot horseradish mustard. Blows the roof of your mouth off. Umeboshi - sweet-sour mouth-puckering bitterness; cleans the palate for the next taste sensation. A sort of Irish Stew, with yam ('taro' in Japanese, I think ... taken the name from Polynesia? Isn't it called that there?). Sticky white rice - I haven't seen brown rice anywhere in Japan. Barbecued fish with a wonderful teriyaki-type sauce. Salty miso soup with little cubes of white tofu and spring onion. Then, to follow, 2 perfect grapes, each the size of a small plum, frosted, wonderful Muscat flavour, seedless, of course. Perfectly offset with two slices of crisp, cold nasi (Japanese pear). I'm becoming a foody in my dotage! Just makes European cuisine seem so ... unsophisticated: 'bung it in, mash it up, bung in oven, wolf it down'... and I don't even think the Japanese regard this as a luxury hotel. In fact, the next morning I notice a line-up of construction worker trucks outside; the workers stayed overnight in the hotel. Begs the question as to what they do consider 'luxurious'.

dawn at ski-hotel
construction worker trucks
do morning ballet

They warmed up their hydraulic platforms by raising them, shaking them from side to side with rainwater streaming off them, dipping and bowing to each other.Then off they roared.

The rain had stopped overnight and sunlight was filtering through the trees. Chopin on in lobby. The Japanese absolutely love Western classical music. I mentioned Sibelius to Kazuo and his face lights up. "My favourite composer!"

putting my boots on in front of automatic lobby door
it doesn't know whether to open or close
domo arigato gozaimasu, o-sewa ni narimashita
domo arigato...
I move away to end it's confusion
Chopin on Tannoy

10 min bus ride to Haguro Centre. Torii. Explanation boards (in English, too!). Descend stone steps to creek. Off to left, go0jin )(5 tiered pagoda). I'm more interested in the light conditions for filming than in being born. Gigantic straight cedars, one venerable gigantic tree with rope around, this generally signifying, well, special status, as far as I can see. Mad Japanese photographer hopping around with loads of equipment, getting the best shot of the cedar. In a conformist society, indeed, in any society, how do you create personal space for yourself? One way is to go mad .. or pretend you're mad. They may leave you alone, then, so long as you don't overdo it. These little cubbyholesof freedom we need to create for ourselves, take advantage of the slack in the system. There's enough square-jawed earnest people around trying to save the world .. let us be, let us be!

Sudden influx of tourists and three groups of kids.One primary: "arigato gozaimasu!" "arigato gozaimasu!", two secondary giggle giggle "good morning" and a brilliant smile from a nice schoolgirl. Spattering of Westerners.

blonde girl at Haguro-san
exotic beast
amongst a forest of crows

Steps. 2446 of them up to the shrines at the top. Took them 13 years to build. "What you up to today, then, Hirashi?" "Building steps, mate, building steps" "But your pappy and your grandpappy both built steps-" "Yes,mate, that's what we do - build steps, mate. Runs in the family, like. Step up in the world, you know." "Haw haw haw" " How's you're stepmother?!" "Haw haw haw". I'm still jumping around photo-ing steps and cedar trees.

2446 slippery steps up Haguro-san
God, it's hard work being born!

human being he go up with great difficulty
daddy long-legs he glide up
lightly, naturally

the birth canal of this goddess
is lined with cedar trees

2/3 of way up find path off to site of Southern Temple. In Basho's day there was a temple here, a fairly new one, built just 50 or so years before. It's where he and Sora stayed, courtesy of the head priest. There's two or three haiku stones along the path. Whilst I'm trying to figure out which are inscribed with Basho's words a woman comes along on her own. Ah: "kore wa Basho desu ka" "Hai, so desu ne" She trots off down the path but almost immediately reappears. "Mamushi!" she says (snake ... or, I think, Japanese adder. They are supposed to sit up and rattle at you before biting so I doubt it's one of them). She asked me if I'd been over Gassan and Yudono-san and I tell her I'm following Basho's footsteps etc. She takes a photof me sitting next to Basho's stone and reading his haiku and trots off. I wander down the trail.

These feet
tread the same stones
as Basho's

Don't see a snake. Maybe Japanese snakes don't like Great Hairy Northern Barbarians either. The site of Southern Temple is unbelievably tranquil. A small, green glade. Two kidney-shaped ponds which must've encircled, held, the temple, now full of water plants. Some large, flat-topped stones which were the foundations of the temple (it burnt down centuries ago). Another inscribed stone at far end. Scattered trees. Quiet, serene, peaceful. I'm quite alone.

the water does not intend to reflect the moonneither does the moon intend to be reflected in the water:
how calm and serene rest Hirosawa's waters!
(I may have got that poem wrong. Waldemar Kurtz,my first Zen teacher in Germany used to quote it. It may not even be 'Hirosawa')

This idea, concept, practice of 'non-intention'. Very central!

Looking for best angle for shot
I tread unintentionally near pond
PLOP!
a frog

Burst through red Torii at the top of the steps into eternal light: HERE I AM! HERE I AM!

All three gods - of Haguro-san (birth); Gasan (death); and Yudono-san (rebirth) are enshrined in this brodignagian red jumbo-jet hangar for the gods in front of me. 'The thatch on the roof alone is 1 1/2 metres thick', the brochure informs me. A dull wailing is being emitted from within, a ceremony going on. The steps to the hangar are high even for my long legs. There's a bit too much encrusted tradition going on here for my taste.I like to think the mountain gods and goddesses are rough gruff sort of chaps and chapettes who like fresh air, not too much incense, as are the forest gods. They sit up there amongst the clouds or trees and grump around the place, lay a bit of waste every now and then. I can't relate the mountain god singing to me all night on top of Gassan to a being or a doing who would consent to live in an airplane hangar (oh, a very very impressive red-painted one with oodles of functionaries to worship one, to be sure). Shinto or Buddhist ceremonies, there's always a lot of moaning going on. I wander off to find out times of buses to Tsuruoka, and, after a bit of argy bargy with a ruff-tuff monk-type (these fellows ain't sissies!) it turns out there's quite a few, so I go for the 3.30. This worries ruffy-tuffy who keeps telling me 'next basu, next basu' and pointing to next bus already waiting. Smile at very nice woman selling postcards.

(my oldest son, Stefan, is 18 today. I rang him earlier)

Calm down a bit - very tired, didn't sleep well the night before - and wander around looking for angles for film and still shots, admiring fantastic carving on smaller shrines. Get on bus, very soon back in Tsuruoka (Lonely Planet are a bit sniffy about Tsuruoka, but, hell, it's got excellent transport connections to everywhere; a great supermarket which sells cheese and bread; cheap, good, clean accomodation; free internet connections on 3rd floor of the Marica Department Store next to the station; did I mention a Mister Donut (!); not to mention, of course, a silly statue outside the station which sings loud folk songs to itself whilst turning round and round! What more could you possibly want???) Bit of a comedown after the heights. Feel I want to go home and tell of my exploits.

Returning Dream

I dreamt that I was flying

But first I kicked a priest
screamed at him
for he didn't believe
that I could be in two places at the same time.

I was back
home
in Bosnia
and Croatia

A big bowl of plums
open (raspucene)
filled with water
so the worms would not survive
they all foated on the top

Maybe my mother will make a jam,
or 'knedle'
she made none
this autumn.

I realise I am back in Bosnia, but that I flew to Britain only a few days ago. This impossibility struck me as strange. How can I be in two places at the same time?

I knew that if I opened my eyes
I would be back in Britain
So I continued keeping my eyes shut.
And the dream continued...

I was in a fancy shop, like a French style delicatessen, small portions of fancy food. Other tourists were there too. a young couple, also passing by, wanting to buy the beautiful food, but settled on a sandwich which seemed affordible.

I walk out
see the coast
the sea
the harbour
realise I am in Croatia
Familiar scenes of boats bopping in the water, in repetative rythm, bop, bop, bop

But I am only visiting,
I scream at the priest
and swear to God that when I open my eyes
I will disappear.
He doesn't believe me,
so I grab him, lift him, high, high
then let him go
I am being chased
so I take off
and
fly
fly
fly

knowing I am soon back home

in London.

NIGHT ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN OF DEATH

(continuation of last one - see last one for orientation)

At the top of the Mountain of Death
I say a prayer for my dead father
and mother-in-law

Night. 6.30. pitch black. Nothing else to do, so curl up in sleeping bag and try to sleep. I`m wearing thermal top, long johns, two pairs of thick hiking socks, trousers, T-shirt, shirt, thick winter fleece, Gortex jacket and balaclava AND I`m in my sleeping bag. Still cold. Drop off quickly - tired - but wake up at 8 o`clock. One advantage of sleeping in the toilet, my dear, is that it`s not far to go to the lu! The pattern repeats most of the night, tho` I get in a longish stretch from about 4 am till 6 am. The worst part of the night was at 3 in the morning (it always is). The wind had got up and was howling round the eaves and singing through the sliding door `downstairs`. The whole night I kept thinking someone was singing to me. The pitch of the voice varied with the intensity of the wind - sometimes a soft warble, sometimes a crescendo. But not a hostile song.

Gassan
all night long
the mountain sang to me

But at 3 am I started worrying that the morrow might be misty. Rain would be OK, wind would be OK - but mist would be dangerous. I kept going over the track I`d taken up that day in my mind, reassuring myself that I could, if I had to, make it back down the same way in mist or fog. I`m sure I could`ve, actually. Not only was the trail clearly marked (red paint blotches on rocks), but it was also quite clearly a trail, most of the way made up of rocks. Also, I knew if I headed west (I had a compass), I`d have to hit a precipitous ridge. Then I`d follow it to the left and eventually hit the trail I`d taken going up. But still I worried. You do, at 3 in the morning. So I repeated the sacred mantra to myself, the one that goes: "clear and dry, no wind; clear and dry, no wind..."

Mountain gods I can deal with
Human beings are a little more complicated

Woke up 6-something, rushed down to check on the weather. The wind had dropped and it was clear and dry.

Gya tei gya tei hara so gya tei
bodji sowa ka han nya shin gyo
Gone, gone to the other shore!

Packed, rushed out munching an apple and drinking cold cocoa from a carton. Said thank you at the shrine of the god (clap hands twice to get his attention, step back, bow twice deeply, 3 full prostrations, slight bow, step aside), picked up the trail to the right of the shrine and took off, stumbling over rocks on a very well marked trail down to Butsusho-ike-goya, a hut just below Omowashi-san (1828m). It very soon started spitting a bit with rain, longs wisps of cloud drifting over the path and up the valleys, but I was still well above most of the cloud. Stopped at hut to get out of my long johns (!) and have burekfasto (leathery Furanso bread, cheese, banana).

You can see why the Japanese venerate rocks:

a single strand of red momiji
across mossy rock
below Omowashi-san

Walked on in gathering rain on the wooden-platformed trail over Midi-ga-hara, `a scenic marshland with countless small ponds and plants, including some rare species said to have existed since the glacial era`.The rain had really set in now and I had all my waterproofs on. Hit the carpark at Gas-san-hachi-gome, from where the bus would`ve gone if there had been one. The infrastructure boys were busy infrastructuring the carpark and there were a few sodden tourist cars. Briefly considered hitching a lift down, but I wantd to commune with the mountain, not make small talk with tourists. Anyway, this is, actually, a pilgrimage route and I wanted the anticipation of the wondrous Haguro-san ahead of me for hours as I trudged towards it, not to get there in a bus and have it presented to me.

all day long
I trudge from death to life
Haguro-san

So down I trudged, for mile after mile and hour after hour along a one-track metalled road, always down. I went through three climate zones: the tops with only wiry grass; the dwarf maple zone, resplendent in red and yellow; then, lower down, mixed deciduous wood, beeches, a few pines. It rained. Then it rained some more. Then it rained some more again. No, it didn`t - it just never stopped. I went a bit mad.

HULLO MOUNTAIN! I yelled at the mountain.
HULLO MOUNTAIN!
HULLO MOUNTAIN!
HULLO BEECH TREE!
HULLO RUSTY METAL POST!
HULLO LIGHT BROWN SLUG THING!
HULLO BLACK SQUISHED NEWT THING!
(He`s not mad - only bonkers)

The NAR (Newt Attrition Rate) must be pretty high on that road. They sat on the side of the road, or in the road. Presumably it was slightly drier on the road than in the pond? I think they were some kind of newt. The waddled, they didn`t skitter, like lizards do. I drove one to safety by stamping on the road near it to make it waddle onto the edge of the road; against my `principles` - ie the one that says, "Don`t meddle with Mother Nature", but, what the hell, Mabel, humans are always meddling with Mother Nature. But then didn`t bother anymore. It rained - did I say that?

About 2/3rds of the way down I came across a tiny shrine to the forest god - with overhanging eaves. I moved his sake and beer offerings and took shelter next to him for 15 minutes. I`m sure he didn`t mind.

Forest god shrine
I shelter from the rain

Mountain god passes me on to forest god
"Look after him," he says,
"he`s a poet"

After 6 1/2 hours of continuous descent the road finally bottoms out (4 and a half hours from the beginning of the road). A few farmhouses - looks like Bavaria. Overhead road sign at crossing with main road says `Haguro-san`, but not how far. I squelch on, road slightly uphill again. Come past house being built and take note: if I have to, maybe a doss there. Come across the incongruous sight of a large, well-lit `education centre`. Wot the hell, looks like civilization! Squelch in, no-one around, just wildlife brochures and displays. Phone rings and guy appears to answer it. When he`s finished I ask him if he speaks English. He shakes his head, says, "chottomatte kudasai". I hang around and the Fairy Princess in the shape of this marvellous, attractive young woman appears! We sort of communicate, at least I can`t take my eyes off her, is she a mirage or what? She rings up a nearby hotel who`ll come and get me in a car. Whilst waiting she shows me around the visitor centre, pointing out the plants and animals and exclaiming over how far I`ve walked. I bask (silly males are easy to flatter by the female of the species!). Car comes, she gives me a present (a button clip of a flower which gros on the mountains); she stands at the door to weave me off. Ahhhhh ....

Forest god he fond of joke
Find nice young woman to get poet hotel room
ahhhh

SLEEPING IN THE ROOF OF THE GENTS TOILET AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN OF DEATH, TOHOKU PROVINCE,JAPAN

Forest God he fond of joke, no?
Find me nice Japanese girl who
book me luxury hotel room. Huh.

Rolled into Haguro-san on a sopping wet afternoon, so also sopping wet (well, the waterproofs were doing their job, so I was dry underneath). Over 10 hours on the trot since leaving Gassan, the Mountain of Death, at 7 am this morning. Covered 20 miles ... I know Stefan (my son) will happily walk 25 with tent and clobber, but his legs are 25 years younger than mine.

Haguso-san, Mountain of Birth; Gassan, Mountain of Death; Yudono-san, Mountain of Rebirth. Of course, I`m doing them the wrong way round. I didn`t notice that that`s what they represented, the 3 holy mountains of Dewa, till I`d completely missed rebirth and ended up dying. It does say so in my hiking guide, but I`d somehow missed that bit. I didn`t mean to die before I was born, honest! Also, the recommended hike I was following, from the same guide book (Lonely Planet/Hiking in Japan), doesn`t actually go over Yudono-san, Mountain of Rebirth. By the time I`d noticed this, I was halfway up Gassan, Mountain of Death!

Bypassed Yudono-san. Shit!
Missed rebirth yet again.
Guess I`ll have to make do with this life

Then again, that-which-must-not-be-spoken-off (Yudonsan jinja shrine - traditionally you have to keep silent about what you see there), is, and again I hadn`t realised it, is at the very start of the hike, OK, the start of the hike is, literally `halfway up the mountain` but I`d thought `halfway up the mountain` meant `halfway up the trail`. So I`ll have to keep silent about what I saw, `cos I saw nothing! Fucked up again. Ａｈ well.

Muddle through.
Do everything wrong.
That`s life.
Some people act as if they know what`s what.
They don`t
Pale crescent moon over Yudono-san

I left Tsuruoka on the 9.17 bus from stop no. 2 outside the station. I`d stocked up with processed cheese, processed pork sausage, furanso bread (French bread), joghurts, bananas, apples, chocolate (gimme a break! I`m not going off for 3 days in the Japanese wilderness with god-knows-what-the hell-is-it food!). Left the rest of my baggage with the mama-san at Nara Ryokan, promising to return Tuesday or Wednesday if a bear hadn`t got me.

As I was waiting at the bus-stop, the lady from the information office rushed up. Was I aware that there was no accomodation en route, and that there was no bus connection from the other side of Gassan to the start of Hagurosan? I thanked her for her concern in flawless Japanese and assured her that I had full mountaineering gear, was a practised walker, and that I doubted that even the Mountain of Death could match the Welsh Black Mountains on a bad day, with wind so strong you couldn`t walk into it, but had to sort of sidle sideways, and raindrops hitting you like bullets. Er, did I say `flawless Japanese`? Well, what actually happened was that we did this little dance around each other, smiling, bowing, gesticulating and pointing.

The trip up to the start of the hike - Yudono-san san rosho - took the better part of an hour, for most of which I had the bus to myself apart from 2 little old peasant women who looked as if a puff of wind would blow them away, but probably worked all day in the rice paddy with their grandchildren strapped to their backs. They could`ve been no more than 4 ft high stretched out, but as they were bent double they were just off the ground.

Two missionaries emailing in the Marica Department Store
in Tsuruoka
Something about them
Evil

Every Japanese road I`ve been on has had road crews all over it, fixing, mending, building. Japan has 4 distinct seasons, it`s hot and muggy in summer, they have torrential rain and metres of snow up here in winter, not to mention the odd earthquake. Everything is constantly sliding downhill and needs to be fixed. The road the bus took was a small, old one, winding around the contours to pick up and deposit peasant women and countryfolk. It reminded me of my childhood in Jamaica, going up the winding road to Newcastle. As I was mostly alone in the bus, the driver appointed himself my tour guide, pointing out traditionally thatched farmhouses, deep gorges, beautiful waterfalls, and slowing down for me to take pictures (can you imagine a Bristol busdriver doing that??). We rejoined the main road and it leapt over gorges, burrowed through outriders, flung itself over 100m deep streambeds; round the corner, the massive curtainwall of a dam. How do they build these things? It`s a funny society - half bent over peasant women and the height of hi-tech infrastructure design and maintenance. An infinite capacity for taking pains, hard work and attention to detail. Perhaps as necessary to design a 100m high road bridge as it is to engineer waterflow and construct paddy fields to grow rice.

Punctilious in every respect they may be
But their backyards
are just as ramshackle as everyone else`s

Eventually ground up the hill to sight the great Torii (red gateway) at Yudono-san san-rosho. Got off bus and was immdiately accosted by concerned gentleman. Was I aware that there was no accomodation open en route and that the bus connection ... I somewhat wearily nodded. I should rush up Gassan in 3 hours, he recommended (his English was good) and rush down. Then I`d be back before it got dark. I`d still miss the last bus out, but I could spend the night at Yudono-san san-rosho in the nice hotel (30 quid). To reassure (read `get rid of`) him, I assured him that if there was nowhere to sleep on top, I`d come back down and do what he said. I had no intention whatsoever of doing so. I was going to commit myself to the mountain god and see what happened. I was going to go up Yudono-san, sleep at Kaji goya on top of Gassan then walk over to Haguro-san the following day, a total distance of some 36km. Yes, I`m all for paying attention to locals who know the local conditions and people`s genuine concern for one`s safety - but what do the gods know of that? They demand you trust them and take the consequences. But don`t think I hadn`t prepared meticulously. I had full mountain gear, 3 days food and water, waterproof Gortex boots with Vibram soles, hi-intensity LED headlamp (courtesy of my Jamaican friend, Simon. Wha`appen, pork?! He`d have loved to come with me. Sorry, pork!), guide book with map, compass, first aid kit, lightweight sleeping bag, thermal top, long johns, fleece - and a picture of my wife and kids (!). Trust in the gods - but keep your powder dry! Mountains punish irresponsibility or disrespect!

Cast about for beginning of trail, then take off, missing that-which-I-can`t-say-a-thing-about-cos-I-ain`t-damn-well-seen-it (translate THAT into Japanese!). Almost immediate steep, rocky climb, in some stages more of a scramble, with ladders rivetted to the rock in the later stages. The guide book says something about `rusty iron ladders` and I`d been looking forward to death-defying scrambles up sheer rock faces on disintegrating ladders, but, alas, the infrastructure boys had been at them, too, and they`d been replaced by brand new aluminium ones with a helpful handrail for the pilgrims. Chains to pull yourself up with as well. Damn! No exposure, either, I was surrounded by a tropical riot of vegetation - small bamboos, maples, dwarf beech, grasses.

Chain up Yudono-san
to help others
towards redemption

Come out of ladder section, turn left at toilet (! either the Japanese have weak bladders or they like toilets - they`re everywhere!), have lunch on big rock next to stream. As I wind slowly up the hill, the vegetation changes to swathes of dwarf maples, massed, or in small clumps eveywhere. Here, it`s already autumn and the leaves are this unreal red, yellow.

Maple leaves already red, yellow
as I make my way up Yodono-san
to be reborn

I climb to a high ridge and come to a T-junction. A battered wooden sign, I decide after much comparison with Kanji in the guide, reads `Yudono-san`. But which way is it pointing? There`s no arrow and no-one around. After much headscratching and perusal of book, which says, `Yudono-san lies in front of you` I decide the sign`s pointing to the left. I plod off up the track andm after a while, chance upon a lone hiker, a tough-looking older man with a red rucksac. "Yudono-san wa doku desu ka" I ask. He points DOWN the trail! S-H-I-T!!! The sign was signing what was behind it, not pointing anywhere!

Yet again missed
rebirth
- have to make do with this life, I guess

Also, Yudono-san is not `in front of you` as the guide book says, but to your right!

Hey you Lonely Planet guys
you made me miss rebirth!
You`re gonna pay for that!
Oh, 12.99

Too late for recrimination. It`s then that I notice, as well, that I`m doing the route the wrong way round (well, the guidebook recommends the trail the wrong way round). I`m doing Rebirth, Death, then Birth, whereas the usual way round is the opposite!

Story of my life.
According to everyone else,
`he did things the wrong way round`.
Let that be my epitaph:
`He did everything the wrong way round`

As my father said: "Don`t go back, go on!" I go on.

From Rebirth to Death
I climb Gassan

I meet only one other walker. I think he must be a yamabushi, a `mountain ascetic`. They undergo purification rites on the mountain involving sleep deprivation, a strict vegetarian diet, reciting sutras under freezing waterfalls etc. This guy approaching is not dressed yamabushi style, but has a funny structure on his back, which I decide is a ceremonial garb or some sort of esoteric costume. We draw level. The `esoteric structure` turns out to be a pair of skis!

Ho haha hee
yamaboshi on skis
monkey mind can`t see what it sees!

I express astonishment but he assures me there`s snow up the mountain` (footnote: I never see any!). I arrive at the top of Gassan at around 3.30. At Kaji-goya, a few feet below the summit, there`s a random collection of prefabricated buildings which must be where people can normally stay, eat, etc. They`re all shuttered and bolted against the winter weather (masses of snow and terrible winds!), the shrine complex tops the peak. I cast around for somewhere to doss: try shutters, but they`re all solid, obviously; go round back - where they keep the gas cylinders there could be a useful gap where the prefab side comes near the ground, anything better? New toilet block nearby, let`s check it out! I pull on the outer, metal shutter outer door - it sldies away left. Yes! Now, now, now, pull tentatively on the inner door. ... It slides away also to the left. Yes! I`m looking into a bright new toilet lined with sweet-smelling pine. Fine, stage 1 secured. Looks like there`s a loft ... bright metal rungs go up invitingly to an open trapdoor. I climb up them, stick my head through - hallelujah, praise the mountain god! I`m looking at a snug space of about 15X30ft, clean flat boarding floor, 4 small frosted glass windows to let in light,. completely wind and rain-proof! That`s it, sussed for the night. Ta, whatever your name is, mountain god!

(tbc)

Walking on my stomack...or how to make AJVAR in a few small steps

Ajvar, and the story of how to make it, simply has to be told. On one of the weekends that I visited my grandparents in Croatia, my mother also decided that we will make Ajvar there. Ajvar is a traditional food, sort of a relish, made out of roasted peppers and aubergines. It is made in September, when the first meaty peppers are ripe, and the story has it that the ones from Macedonia are the best! Hence, my mother dragged me early one morning to the big market, to go hackeling for the best peppers. I duly forgot to take my camera, hence no picts. But, I made up for it by snapping each stage of the Ajvar process. So here it goes...





It all starts with peppers, which need to be roasted, and we bought approx 30 kg of peppers! Also, aubergines are roasted too. Once the peppers are ready, they are left to cool down in a closed pot, so the skin will be easy to peel off. Peel off! Yes, I ended up in this scene of peeling peppers (the one hiding behind long hair), which is exclusevily reserved for women (feeling my simmering angerrrrr?!).




At the same time, this role division seem to work well, my uncle looks after the gas fire, my grandfather after the mincing of the peeled peppers, and my mother after everything else. My auntie and grandmother are also roped into the peeling process.
Once the peppers are peeled and aubergines prepared, they are tied into bags and hung overnight (also my uncle's responsibility).


The following morning the peppers and aubergines are minced, and cooked with loads of garlic and some spicy peppers in a huge pot, under the gas fire (not feeling comfortable with the idea of being blown to pieces with ajvar, so you can't tell which is me and which are peppers...nonono...)




All is well, and after a couple of hours of simmering, ajvar is ready, delicious, gorgeous, jammy!

In the break time...

...my grandmother watches her favourite Spanish soap, Forgotten Love or something similar. The subtitles in this pict reads: 'Don't worry. We will soon be millioners.'

On Sunday, my grandmother switches to direct tv relay of the Sunday Mass, sort of a reality tv of religious nature.

Crossing the broder with Ajvar

Sunday afternoon, and Ajvar is all ready and packed in the boot of our car. In total we made approx 20kg of this delicious stuff. We pack it well, as we are actually not allowed to be carrying it over the border. We are (just to refresh) in Croatia, and are about to drive back to Banja Luka in Bosnia.
I took snapshots while we were crossing the border.First pic is of the Croatian border. We passed this checkpoint (no questions asked, smiles to Mr Officer, dobar dan, dovidjenja...)

Cross the bridge over river Sava, which is a natural border, and we reach Bosnia and Herzegovina border. Again, no questions asked, all smiles, nothing to declare, while ajvar is cooling in our boot, dobar dan, dovidjenja...I continue snapping...

As the border checkpoints are situated in a small town of Gradiska, the only major street in this place is completely taken over by long queues, mostly of the people who work abroad (Germans have the expression 'guestworker', in fact my grandparents were guests in Germany for 15 years, but that's a whole other story), visiting their homes, or tourists coming back from the Croatian sea side, or numerous trucks.

Trade of cigaretts, CDs and hand knitted tablecloths is roaring. As you stand in the queue, quite often teenagers, even 11, 12 year olds will approach and offer you various goods, etc...While women will offer their collections of table cloths.



I have small confession to make. As I write this, my ajvar pot has made it through the border, to Banja Luka, and back again, to Zagreb airport, out of Croatia, into Heathrow, London, through the green 'nothing to declare' channel, all smiles, and happiness to be be seeing my husband. After all, my mother, kept saying this Ajvar is for him. It is her offerings, her gift, for him.

MISTER DONUT!

Was going to edit my last blog (yesterday) but re-read it and decided it was fine as it was. It wasn`t in chronological order and didn`t have any commentary (except on poetry) so might have been a bit confusing to figure out where I was and whatI was doing. The format of my prior announced `poetry travelogue` is becoming clearer to me: it will be journey notes, comments and details interspersed by poems, hopefully with pictures. So treat the blog as `work in progress and on the hoof` and I`ll order it, add to it etc when I get back. Hope to publish it in book form ... ANYONE OUT THERE READING THIS HAS ANY CONTACTS/SUGGESTIONS IN THE BOOK TRADE? I`ll certtainly try to get it out on the BBC or something: Home Truths have expressed an interest for a 7 minute slot and will pay me for 1 1/2 days `reporters rate` if I come back with stuff they can use`; so I`m also recording to MD en route (I am lugging literally tons of bloody electronica around with me!) Other indy suppliers to R4 have said, non-commitedly, that they`ll see whatI come back with ...

I`m holed up in Tsuruoka, west coast of Japan, several hundred km up from Niigata, south of Sakata. `Holed up` because it`s chucking it down, and has been for the past two days solid. I gather a taifun is letting loose somewhere, but can`t identify from the TV pictures where it is currently. There`s a certain synchronity going on, not surprising, really, considering the intense, deep effort, thought, preparation and meditation which has been necesssary to get me to Japan. On leaving Naruko-onsen (hot-springs) in 1689 Basho wrote:

"Beyond Narugo Hot Springs, we crossed Shitomae Barrier and entered Dewa Province. Almost no-one comes this way, and the barrier guards were suspicious, slow and thorough. Delayed, we climbed a steep mountain in falling dark and took refuge in a guard shack. A heavy storm pounded the shack with wind and rain for three miserable days.

Eaten alive by lice and fleas
now the horse
beside my pillow pees"

On leaving Narugo Hot Springs I wrote:

Basho was treated suspiciously here; there is a theory
that he was a spy for the Shogunate. Freely passing
Shitomae-no-seki, mist lifts off the valley

I got in a JR local train in falling rain and took refuge in Tsuruoka. A heavy storm pounded the streets for three restful days in a Western style guesthouse.

Travelling to Tsuruoka:
Long, boring, grey, miserable day;
the weather brightens towards evening.
My heart lifts: mountains!

In Tsuruoka
Sod the gameshow:
let`s see the crumpet!

Mister Do-Not
Tomorrow - genuine Japan;
but tonight - Mister Donut!
(er, sumimasen, `genuine Japan` wa doku desu ka?)
(sumimasen=pardon me; wa doku desu ka = where is it?)

at Shinjo, waiting for a connection
`Book off!` it says on the roof of a book
warehouse in the outskirts of Shinjo. Book
off yourself! What a thing to say to a poet!

The Japanese are a very practical and pragmatic people. You can tell that they sit down and think things through: "now what is a person likely to need in these circumstances?" they think, then provide it before being asked. The Posto (it`s not the proper Japanese word but everyone understands it) I went to this morning is a good example. Apart from being open when you need it (ie most of the time), there are several stands which have the following: a ball of string on a gizmo to pull out and cut; two bottles of glue, and, best of all, colour-coded glasses! (red, yellow and blue: all of different strengths, so if oba-san (honourable grandmother) has forgotten her glasses - hoppla, here you are!; and the surface of these stands is of a special material ideally suited for writing on. So they`ve sat there and thought, "now what does our typical customer need and how can we provide it? When I was in Nobiru (Oku-Matsumashita), a tidgy little town, not only was the service station spanking clean, but the attendants stood outside it on the forecourt, waiting for honourable customer to roll up so they could help them. If you ask for a ticket at a train station then the bloke gives you one in English - and writes the platform number on the bottom. The optician in Sendai mended my glasses and gave them back to me. "Ikura desu ka" I ask (how much?). He smiles and bows. `My pleasure," he says.

First ever zazen in Japan; those, numerous
as the sands of the Ganges, who have ever sat zazen
in this country breathe in with me;
I breathe out: gods cannot catch me

At Naruko-onsen
Poetry exists to say the subtle obvious
- or is that the obviously subtle?

What does poetry have to do with the state of the world, the
crisis in Sudan, global warming, international terrorism, peace
on earth, mercy mild, the price of petrol?
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing
(that means: Everything)

What do you intend to do about the economy?
Write poem
What do you intend to do about global warming?
Write poem
What do you intend to do about starvation in Africa?
Write poem
Are you supremely arrogant, supremely uncaring, supremely stupid or supremely wise?
Write poem

I knew it - I knew that just after I`d propounded a theory about `the rule of 3 in Japanese temple architecture` and things being unsymmetrical, and to the left (see earlier blog), I`d find every single shrine, temple etc I visited was absolutely symmetrical and had no `3s` in it! And thus it has come to pass! Bow down, Oh Son of Israel and admit thy grievous folly! Bollox. The whole point about being somewhere where you haven`t the slightest idea what`s going on (My Japanese may stretch to "I am allergic to shellfish" - watashi wa kai ni arerugi ga arimasu, in case you wanted to know, "arerugi" being, of course, the Japanese for "allergy" - but it doesn`t stretch to a discussion of the hermeneutic art of 12th century temple building!) is that you can propound any theory you want, with no danger of being contradicted. So I think, er, take it as a poetic whimsy ...

The Japanese FRAME things. They know that humans cannot think without a frame within which to have the thoughts, indeed, we cannot see anything for which we do not have a conceptual frame set up. I repeat: we cannot see something for which we do not have a frame. This is not new, or original: the history of Western art is absolutely of FRAMING things so we can see them. Could we see a sunflower, I mean SEE a sunflower before Van Gogh framed one? He created a new FRAME for us to SEE a common-or-garden sunflower in a completely new way. That one`s now worth trillions, isn`t it? So the reason the path to Ojima, or Oshima Island at Matsushima is curved, and not straight, is because this happens: at first you are presented with blank rock, a blank wall. As you walk on, a sliver of sky is presented to you, framed by the rock. As you move further on, suddenly the whole vista is presented to you, framed in Japanese red pine, one branch growing this way, another that: a red bridge, the curve of the island`s flank, the shrine above the bridge and to the left. I`ll say it again: none of this could be placed anywhere else, it`s not that it has to be this way, it just IS! So the architects of this manipulation knew exactly what they were doing and they did this by unknowing it: frame, and rightness.

And red - why is the bridge red? Yes, I recall reading somewhere that red is a propitious colour in China, a colour of good fortune - but why? Then a tourist brochure provides a clue: the Japanese venerate the Autumn colours, especially of maple ... red maple. Torii`s are red (a torii is the red gateway which denotes "you are now entering the spiritual realm"); we have, here, a red bridge. The maple is red because it`s dying ... passing over to another season, another realm; a torii is a gateway to a new realm; a bridge connects two realms, two worlds

My Mitsubishi Shogun has four-on-the-floor Transmission
You get instant Enlightenment when you turn on the ignition
It`s all-aluminium V8 beats all 5 Skodas into submission
Wuhey! Says I, now that`s what I call authentic Buddhist tradition!

Well what d`you expect at 3 am in the morning? Poetry?

Priddy Green, Somerset (on seeing rice straw stooped to dry)
This the Japanese farmer would understand:
wood, stakes. The feel of straw in the hands.
How to make a stoop.