Hermit's lament

Bored monkey, bored trainer, Miyajima island, Hiroshima Prefecture, Japan, May 1996, by Michael

'Tis a sad world indeed
that would rob you even of the simple pleasure
of bathing in your own blues

Self-Portrait Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Today's Self-Portrait Tuesday is a double feature.
At top, it's July 1997 and I'm in the early stages of the Shikoku 88-temple pilgrimage in Japan. This photo was taken in Komatsujima City in Tokushima Prefecture. By this point, I had visited perhaps a dozen of the temples. I forget exactly how many.
I was on summer break from my junior high school teaching job in Chiba Prefecture, and this was how I spent a chunk of my summer vacation.
I was very eager, if supremely naive. My pack weighed 45 pounds. It was filled with enough impedimenta for an Arctic expedition. I even packed a blow-dryer. And that was one of the more "useful" items.
I was wearing hiking boots with heavy wool socks over thin cotton ones. This was at the suggestion of a self-billed outdoorsman friend of mine who turned out not to have a clue what he was talking about. Over the course of the week or so I was on the road, I never had worse blisters in my life.
At bottom is me in Kochi Prefecture in September 2004, a few days into my continuation of the pilgrimage where I had left off in 1997, at Temple 23.
My pack weighed about 15 pounds.
I wore a single thin pair of socks meant for triathletes. I'm wearing extra-lightweight running shoes. I carried just the bare necessities. I felt like I could walk forever.
I was just a travelin' man ...

The threat

Country road at dawn, Iidaka district, Yokaichiba City, Chiba Prefecture, Japan, April 1998, by Michael

Watch: One of these days
I'm gonna leave this old house
and just keep walking

The circle advances

Twenty-five years ago today, as a college freshman, I remember thinking on my 19th birthday what a neat coincidence it was that Steely Dan's "Hey Nineteen" was playing on the radio that afternoon.
Here it is the day after, and I'm 44.
Where did the time go?
Where did it go?

Death is but a dream

Pilgrim (o-henro-san) on the Shikoku 88-temple path, Kochi Prefecture, Japan, September 2004, by Michael

Death is but a dream
a long walk through countryside
strangely familiar

Fragile hope

A good friend of mine who knows of my interest in Japan sent me these ceramic figurines.
The taller one stands about 5 inches.
They were made in U.S.-occupied Japan sometime between 1945 and 1952, but most probably in the late '40s. Below left, you can see the original price, 25 cents, stamped on the base of the shorter one.


I love these figurines for what they represent.
At the time they were made, Japan was in ruins -- at least most of the big cities.
Tokyo and Osaka had been carpet-bombed and firebombed and flattened. You would've been hard-pressed to find two bricks to stack in some neighborhoods.
And then there were Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
People were starving. They did whatever they had to do to get by, even if it meant eating tree bark and grass.
Or, for those lucky enough to have the means, crafting cheap figurines to sell to GIs or to export overseas.
The future never looked so bleak.

Slowly but surely, the people rebuilt the country, literally from the ground up. Against the odds, they created a new world that their forebears never envisioned.
And it started with baby steps.
Just getting through one day at a time.
Putting one foot in front of the other.
Making cheap figurines.

The friend who sent me these wonderfully symbolic gifts is facing travails of her own, as we all are.
These figurines are her poignant reminder to me that hope exists, fragile as it may be, even in the very depths of hell.

Self-Portrait Tuesday, March 21, 2006

This photo was taken Wednesday after an exceptionally grueling class of more than an hour of non-stop kata (forms), sparring and ground-fighting.
Two fellow brown belts are in the process of testing for shodan, or first-degree black belt. This six-week process is also tough on we students who aren't testing, because we help put the examinees through their paces.
The sparring is much heavier and more intense and near-full contact frequently is made to the body.
The groundfighting tends to have an element of desperation thrown in.
More than ever, we're expected to do our best, for our fighting spirit will help our seniors rise to the challenge.
After this class, during which I almost took a roundhouse kick to the head, I was too dog-tired to smile and too dog-tired to care.
I'm just thankful that, on the cusp of my 44th birthday, I'm able to participate.

Cat as teacher

In Goju-ryu, the style of karate I practice, there is a stance called nekoashi-dachi, or cat stance, that also is found in many other martial arts styles.

Here's a student showing how it is done:

Courtesy shotokanforeveryone.com

And here, Tara-sensei demonstrates:

Just another beautiful day in Paradise

Today was an ordinary day in Mundaneville, the kind of day my barber friend likes to call "just another beautiful day in Paradise."
I had intended to take a walk to and through Manhattan, but I've been feeling a little stiff-jointed the past week. I've noticed this most just before karate class gets under way, during the period of stretching that precedes the lesson.
It, too, will pass.

It didn't help that yesterday, a karate friend of mine and I struggled to drag a full-size iron futon frame, the kind that folds into a couch, up the narrow stairs to my apartment.
We tried to bring up the frame in one piece, and it almost, almost fit through the 90-degree turn that marks the end of the entryway and the start of the single flight of about eight steps.
"One more push," I said with confidence.
Now there's a hole in the stairway wall the size of a cafeteria tray.
We took the frame apart, brought it upstairs, reassembled it, and all is right with the world.
The addition of the futon/couch inspired me to do some much-needed housecleaning (which I look forward to about as much as I look forward to going to the dentist).

This morning, dog-tired even after a full night's sleep, my visions of walking 18 miles through Manhattan never solidifed into action.
It didn't help that there's a 48-hour "Sanford and Son" marathon on the TV Land cable channel. I think it's the funniest show on TV, current or classic. The lure of 48 hours of "Watch it, Sucka!" and "You big dummy!" and "Oh no, Elizabeth, this is the big one!" proved too much.
I drank tea all day and sat on my ass in front of the TV on my new futon/couch, taking a half-hour intermission only to run to the bookstore for some used books I've had my eye on.
Just another beautiful day in Paradise.

Today put me in mind of a saying I once heard: We all want to live forever, but can't keep ourselves entertained on a rainy Sunday.

MST, Sept. 12, 1907-March 19, 1992