Monday, December 04, 2006




Lifting strangeness with fingertips,
Etched manicured perfection.

Seeking some hollow church
To fill with substance,

Concrete and metal,
A delicious meal.

Finding manual affection
In the blackness.

Left with blind feelings,
Unsure of dimensional weaknesses:

Confusion is
The highest of mental states.
Ubuyama-mura

Corrugated metal roofs, springtime flowers,
Miniature cars in old short sheds.

Cars slide past village and industrial trucks,
Kids play the street: matching yellow hats, school packs.

Butterflies, birds venture tirelessly,
The farmer looks on.

Heat of summer in the air, stillness,
Mamushi snake nipping at your heels.

Birth Mountain village.

The winter of frozen toes,
Seeking kotatsu.

Begging for her warmth,
Suffering for her warmth.

Loudspeakers calling,
Meetings, then speeches.

Desolate branches and the evergreen bamboo
Sprouting.

Patches of life, bleeding oil,
Stations of gas, shochu.

Hours of numbness, yearning,
The lonely soul.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

Eugene

Old stained wood scent
Flying down stairs, orange lit corridors, redwood walls.

Crying, hair follicles strained:
Brown with hint of blond.

Rose splattered face, wet with tears,
Then respite – stained light tan carpeting, black Labrador.

Quiet Douglas firs stand
Next to steep driveway:
Capital Drive.

Once was tire swing, swinging, falling.

Sunny summers, hay fevers.

Tree forts, bird watchers.

Golf balls resting among tired graves.

Prefontaine’s last run.

Quiet now.
Her face still like mountains
Then tumbling down the sides
Moving like avalanche.

Her tears invisible as drops in the ocean.

Each conversation drifting carelessly,
Into inanity, a kind of insanity.

Cat-like confusion drifting on the horizon
Of a dog’s life, the slower, less confused,
Hand-to-mouth life. The canine.

The feline adjusts, calls the name, quells the name.

Her voice shrill into the silence;
Left empty, dial tone.

Aching, smiling, beckoning, joking, twirling, playing
Like a cat with a dead mouse.

Friday, December 01, 2006

How many lives...

can one live in a single lifetime? That is my question.

I remain alive, albeit in a different location in the bay area.

Every now and then my mind reaches back to past times, mostly yearning for them.

I look around at the present place and time... I see broken communities, people so individualized (or individuated) that they no longer exist in any form of group.... And then I also see wonderful individuals all around me that seem to keep the entire universe inside themselves.

I see an ecosystem that suffers from various diseases.

But mostly I just am, like everyone else.

I remember my friend, who, seeing this display of insectual love, wondered "are they kissing?"

Life is real, at least. Life remains real despite the modernizations and technologifications. I thank life for that.

Sunday, November 26, 2006

America the Young



It has been a while since I have written you.

Life has finally come to a strange balance in the San Francisco bay area. I feel relaxed; everyday I appreciate the ideal temperate climate that this area has to offer. I still enjoy my rides on the Bay Area Rapid Transit. And I appreciate the valuable time I have with my family.

There is no question that this is an outstandingly beautiful metropolitan area. In every direction there are places of enchanted natural beauty and I am thankful for that. Perhaps people can say the same about Seattle and Vancouver in the north, Los Angeles and Santiago in the south. Cities that don't forget just how beautiful the rest of nature can be. And yet San Francisco is beautiful by itself when you see it, for example, from Alamo Square at dusk, all the lights and towers spread out before you....

Yet the society, the culture, the artifice, have not yet been here long enough to have learned the wisdom from the land. The houses, for example, are still not yet ready for the earthquakes that are surely to come. The culture of the people here (many of whom are temporary transplants) has not yet learned to embrace the full splendidness that exists here.

Yet there are individuals here, if not small groups of people, that have learned to truly enjoy their time and space.

This is all on my mind partly because of an email from my friend in France who wrote this of Europe:

"There is a passionate, deeply embedded love affair with food -- and with nature -- here, and the curve of every landscape tells the story of the people who have come before. Walking in the wilderness is like stepping into a storybook fable: I had never realized it until now, but the scenery and images most cherished in childhood, the colorful landscapes that accompany every child's fable -- what seemed so imaginary, such a flight of fancy at the time, having never seen them -- I now realize is the beautiful product of thousands of years of the relationship between humans and the wild. Without covering every square inch of land with asphalt, highways, strip malls, and row after row of identical, vinyl-sided houses, Europeans have managed to preserve themselves in the world around them, and thrive, while still creating a dynamic landscape in which one can still feel the wonder of being lost in the woods."

The descriptions remind me of (the best sides of) Japan as well... and they make me feel what most of America does not yet have, if it ever will. And yet I want to live a life with that 'deeply embedded love affair' with food and nature here in America. And yet, can I when most everyone else around me is not? It takes so much effort and care to have to create a culture in your life that does not exist in the society around you! What are we to do?