Remnants of Ill-will

I try to be diligent about keeping up with U.S. news, but sometimes I'm glad to take a break from it.

Recent headlines have had me thanking my adventurous inclination to leave all that ego behind.

Kanye- forget about his music and look at him step over boundaries in attempt to...be an asshole? I'd understand sticking your neck out and making yourself look like an asshole if it was an award you'd been robbed of. And a VMA? What's there to sweat? I guess Grammies still have enough class to deign the mid-acceptance speech interruptions.

DDB--Although made by a Brasilian branch of this American advertising agency, I find the ink spilled on ad men of America's hands. This was breaching any kind of sensitivity for the 9/11 subject by trying to purport the most vain and gauche shock value. A true paradigm of American advertising and I will happily go a year without seeing a single U.S. TV commercial. Amen.

Walmart--I don't know where some people went wrong, but they all seem to end up at Walmart. The staple of middle American filth and a way to give us all a bad name. I will pick up a little ego and gloat that I have never been inside a Walmart before and I hopefully never plan to.

Love to Queue

I went to Kyoto in a somewhat reluctant attempt to see the traveling Louvre exhibit. I heard rumors of a ridiculously long wait and having been to the actual Louvre in Paris, I had to make a day-of decision.

But, look at this mess. How is a line this long justifiable? In my experience at the Hyogo Prefectural museum, Japanese people continue to wait in line, even after they've passed through it. They have accustomed their brains to follow, short linear steps around the perimeter of an area, which is an atrocity in an art museum where you should be able to float freely from one artwork to the next.

Needless to say, I didn't spend the three hours it would take to make it into the museum. Instead, I stood in awe of this monstrosity of a line and decided to give myself the benefit of Kyoto and see Ginkakuji instead.

Where is this place

After three hours of a northward drive, the countryside crept over the hills and I seemed more and more detached from anything I had known. The mountains started to swell into the highway, and the stretch of paved concrete became narrower. The clouds crouched and left us driving through patches of fog and dreary overcast. In this kind of weather, there is a certain calm about the air. Coupled with the plain passing rice fields and small, local farms, I sensed a lulling cool that made me feel weightless.

We reached the end. The Japan Sea. It was just over those sand dunes? There were huge granular lumps in our path to the ocean panoramic. It was like being transported into the Sahara, except there was a true oasis in sight.
We took the dogs, or as I affectionately refer to this particular kind as "Sammy dogs", in honor of the late Sammy, Cameron's rabid schnauzer whom I was never particularly fond of.

And there, again, were those looming clouds. It was as if they had chased us to the end of the world. It was quiet and I could hear only my heavy breath after haphazardly trudging to the top of the dune. And the Sammy dogs pitter patter over the grit while finding a spot to pee.
I couldn't smell the ocean here. When we looked across the horizon at an endless beige haze, it looked like the Earth just ended. There was a dropping off point into an unknown abyss. I always thought the end of the world would like barren like a desert. These desert places I've been reflect the sky in a strange way. Not like a mirror, as the ocean does, but as a stoppage of energy. Like sandbags lining a flood, it stops all movement and motion forward. The ocean seemed so far from the coast and the sky seemed so lifeless, reflective of our imminence.

We didn't stay for long. We made it to the end and that was that. The sand was moist and we sank with each step, especially on the way back. I thought of quicksand, but then I felt a comfort in the fineness of the granules. These desert places. These strange, sullen desert dunes.

Gone Goldfishin'

I love Goldfish. My love has never been fully realized without such loss. But, today was a breaking point. A reunion, if you will. I was sent some of those tasty, bite-sized delights in the mail today. I ate and ate. And then I felt sick. The salt I licked off my fingers, that cheddar stuck in my teeth. It was such a sweet union.

A couple years back, I made an ad campaign for Goldfish:

Dream Jobs

There was a topic today where students had to talk about their "dream job".

A few of the answers I really liked:

1. "Someone who can make funny" --translation via explanation: an entertainer

2. Someone who can help people i.e. a doctor or a counselor --practical and conventional, yet wise.

3. A housewife to a rich Arabian who has oil fields.

Visual Deception

It has happened where I will walk through a room of art and completely miss the point. I could be falling straight into some sort of Dadaist trap where I am over-contemplating over-simplified art when the actual point is to overstep all meaning and mock the foolish scholar. It could be the pristine coolness of the gallery space that purports these highfalutin claims to understand the artist's purpose. It could be the intense silence and the endless amounts of time to meander from painting to sculpture in awe of something seemingly spectacular.

However, the sublimity of the latest exhibit I saw was completely undercut by the unfortunate over-crowding.

The concept was simple yet brilliant. A term heard and understood by many who study art, but never displayed with such a decadent variation of artists and time periods to return to one surrounding core: trompe l'oeil.

From ancient times, a viewer’s visual experience of an art work framed the work as a re-creation of its subject. The use of various styles and techniques in art works to create an image of what is not in fact there is intrinsically linked to visual illusion. Surely the realist expression that seeks to copy nature, developed in western painting, was born from a fundamental search for visual illusion.

16th Century painter Giuseppe Archimboldo was the advertised star of the show. He uniquely created images made from a set of items that appear to be completely different, such as fruit and vegetables to create the portrait of a man. The idea of trick art has existed even before the Renaissance when used in playing with perspective. It has come so far as to reach the other spectrum in advertising where certain ocular scams are created for shock value and a frisky attempt to replicate images from the past. In any case, the exhibit had an excellent array of visually deceptive art that spanned the years and offering the viewer an expansive understanding of trompe l'oeil from generations past and a variety of cultures present.

These deceptive techniques, not necessarily found in the mainstream genres of pictorial arts, became the subject of new focus and attention in 20th century art, a time when such deception developed in surprising and diverse ways. Magritte made pictures that explored the tenuous relationship between image and reality, while Dali revived the double image method in contemporary art.
And then there was M. C. Escher, the print artist who pursued the detailed depiction of optical illusions. With the advances in both photographic and moving image technologies, the visual image environment surrounding art has undergone, and continues to undergo, a dizzyingly fast rate of change. In such a contemporary environment, artists like Jasper Johns have brought to the fore all manner of new expressive tools, often involving the manipulation and transformation of images, and the exposure of the false nature of such images. These and other experiments could be called a new form of visual play for both artist and viewer.

There may only be one downside to this beautifully orchestrated exhibit: the crowd. For some reason, Japanese have an affinity for only the most well-advertising art shows. Judging by the enormity of the line to get inside where another line around the museum floor awaited, there were no more art patrons left in the city. It was almost corruption how long it took to wait, and after being herded in, no one felt the freedom to move around the room to explore. They were so accustomed to the queue, no one knew what to do when there wasn't one.

All impatient gripes aside, visual deception is a virtuoso of artistic elements and was revered as such. And for a challenge, you might need a stealth plan to deceive the masses as you attempt to cut the line. I would go to this exhibit again, but I don't know if my soul can justify the wait.

Pandies

Like a true celebrity, Tam Tam the giant panda sat unaware of her effect on adoring fans.

Over the silver week holiday, there was a line outside her lair at the Oji Zoo in Kobe. As she munched into oblivion, we lined up like chumps to catch only a two minute glimpse of her, in all her portly glory.
She's got a real way with the camera though. Deep, sultry stares and she really hooks us in with her oral fixation.
A highlight of the zoo by far and I can now say that Japanese are certifiably more in love with pandas than we Americans.

Empty Nester

Welcome Bosco, my mom and dad's new dog. My dad said he looks like me. Same complexion or something. He also said he hired a hot cheerleader to come over and walk him. My dad stops by the butcher daily to get him fresh bones, which he then boils in water and cleans. He also takes Bosco to the park in the rain and has flashbacks to 'Nam and pisses in public. A model American and a well-deserved mention on this blog.

An unexpected delight

In traveling to Tottori prefecture, I was introduced to a surprisingly scrumptious cephalopod. Squid, or ika, has never tickled my fancy. It has this gooey, placenta-like film around it's body and mangy tentacles that droop off it's strangely shaped head. I imagine it as some kind of extraterrestrial marine creature that was sent to Earth to poison us with it's ink.

However, I succumbed to the ika that day at the fish market where it had me outnumbered. Raw and laid out on bloody ice, it's lifeless eyes lured me. My friend had me try squid ink squid cakes, which were delicious. Later, I must've felt the force of the extraterrestrial spirit and was inspired to try squid ink ice cream. Imagine chocolate and vanilla swirl and replace the chocolate with this charcoal grey color of creme.

The dried squid were somewhat creepier than the raw ones at the other end of the fish market. I refused a try for fear of my soul getting sucked into an alien body and transported into space, never to be found again. For now, I'll stick with the soft serve.

Hippies Found

I was beginning to think they didn't exist. The stench of body odor and incense, mingling in an unsavory fusion. The long, scraggly hair with a lingering stink of pot smoke. The ragged, canvas-like clothing and the intricate mandala-esque designs in deeply dyed maroon and burt orange. The quintessential hippie. Where could such a hippie ideal exist in a land where conformity and order ruled the land with an oversized iron fist?

Unbeknownst to me, I was taken on a weekend retreat to a hippie haven. A place where you can walk righteously barefoot and find quality reggae music nestled in an ocean cove on the outskirts of Wakayama city.

My friend knew there would be a live music show that day, but I had the lowest of expectations considering the only live music I've come across had been J-pop peddling street performers. To my surprise, the music was a funk-filled blend of earthy dub and what I guess could be coined as Japanese reggae. It was mellow, steady with the bass and resonated a chamber of eclectic harmonies.

The show started slow, leaving us with some time to get to know the place. The bar opened onto the shore and the inner construction was a slanted cave-like nook replete with straw mats, hammock, and of course hippies toting hippie paraphernalia like wooden jewelry and CD's of the featured bands.

The other patrons were a motley crew of prismatic fashion. I spent a good amount of daylight soaking in the mish-mash of style and retro throwbacks I was convinced would be hard to find anywhere else other than this sliver of beach.

All the trimmings of a good hippie festival were in order. The guy working his hippie magic near the stage with an assortment of "trippy" tools to wow the eye. Those dancing in the ocean and those in the little circles of congregated peaceniks noshing on absolutely delicious curry, pizza and tacos. The blank canvas and markers to inspire the crowd's divine creativity and draw something completely unique. It was all here.

As the sun started to set, the party kicked into full gear. The reggae funked up and the skanking started to sway the masses.


And of course, a bonfire. A hands-down crowd pleaser among the hippie crowd. A spiritual symbol of unity and a way to feel as free as the flames.

This uncanny encounter was enlightening. Not in the way where I found that oneness with the music and that energy from the group. I found a revived sense of interest for the Japanese culture. Perhaps it was too easy to typecast them all as conformists when I should've known full well that the majority of Americans are also fuddy duddies who can easily be claimed by uncool.
Still, this hippie sighting was somewhat of a magical existence that I have yet to find off that minuscule beach with only a wooden sign laying on the top of a concrete stairwell that leads to an eclectic paradise.

I couldn't help but think of the ancient hippies, like Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, Hermann Hesse and Nietzsche. In a time and a place where hippies weren't yet hippies, how did they define themselves? And how much of the typical hippie to date has taken from those archaic paradigms of free-thinkers and doers.

All I know is that if a place like this can exist in Japan, it can exist anywhere. And maybe it's good that they are few and far between. To find the good places in Japan, you have to know where to look or stumble on them blindly. The best places are hidden. If you want the best restaurant in Kobe, it has no storefront. You go down an alleyway, through a stairwell, down a hall, around the corner to a basement door, go up three flights of stairs and there it opens into an oasis-like dining experience.

There is an abounding free spirit somewhere in this country and those of like minds will find one another.

A year without a Mexican

I literally salivated at the sight of a tubular, aluminum shape.

Paired with a side of chips and salsa, I know what that thick, juicy package holds. Warm, gooey tortilla, sharply seasoned chicken, black beans--oh sweet black beans-- guacamole and pico de gallo aplenty. When made right, it melts together in the most scrumptious way.

I used to hold somewhat of a record for my abilities to hoover a super burrito in less than 2 minutes. Thinking back, those were the times I was most fearful of obesity because I truly understood emotional eating. I yearned for that burrito and when I had it, I couldn't eat it fast enough. Now, as life is void of burritos, I've let my record slip away and I am all together in complete recovery from this edible addiction.

Nonetheless, my life up until Japan was always full of that Mexican sabor. Growing up in Texas and then navigating west to California, Mexico's cultural influence has definitely been a part of daily life. Maybe it's the craving for Mexican food I know I can never have that's spurring this nostalgia, but I certainly miss having them around.

The Honeymoon's Over

I'm 24. Someone failed to mention to me that at this point in life a swarm of diamond rocks and baby bumps would appear on all of my friends. Is there some biological timer that has gone off in everyone else except for me? I fear Facebook and the barrage of news feeds featuring engagement ring close-ups and photos of babies having babies. For me, this bridal ballyhoo never even hit the mark and the honeymoon is already over. That is, for Japan and I.

I consider myself a romantic; not hopeless or hapless, just someone who believes in love. However, any semblance of a "normal" relationship at this point does not exist. It subsists only with this country, Japan.

Part of the initial intrigue in coming to a foreign country was to study cultural differences and present a challenge to everyday living. I guess this crux of life could be said for any human-to-human relationship. I truly am in love with meeting new people and being in new places. I even enjoy daily confrontations that make me claim some sort of unique independence amid this overwhelming world.

Eventually life will calm down, and in it, you will settle for whatever it is that you think made you happy. Those little dried fish at the supermarket in the packaging I still can't read doesn't require a photograph anymore. They're always sitting there on the shelf, next to the dried seaweed packages and among names of noodles I can't pronounce. After the wedding planner and the photos and the honeymoon in Maldives, you're back at home with a plumbing problem, sitting on a stained couch next to a man with perpetual gas and a foul mouth when he watches Sports Center highlights. You've gained back the ten pounds you lost to impress yourself twenty years from now after you've really let it all out. Your life isn't depressing and I am by no means a pessimist, but it is what it is.

More so than the phenomenon of feeling completely entrenched in normalcy after a certain period of about 3-4 months, I am baffled by the timing of it all. In a world I hope will never get customary, how is it that human feelings toward routine can be charted and scheduled so precisely? Sure, there are those of us who break the mold, but for the most part, I was told I would feel this way. I was told the thrill would be gone, but not for long.

I may not stand around and stare at a bottle of tea or a heated toilet seat (complete with bidet) anymore. She may have given up her personal training and come home to a sink full of dishes. But, there's real gratitude in the regularity of a life you love.

I may not be able to exchange men out the way I do countries, but I have a feeling I can keep myself interested in Japan at least until talks of motherhood with Indonesia come my way.

Undiscovered Paradise

It is a personal mission of mine to visit every revered beach known to mankind. By way of research or public acclaim, I am able to see some real crowd pleasers: Ipanema and Copacobana in Brasil, warm Bahamian tropics, Kailua and the North Shore of Oahu, the illustrious Cote d'Azure along the coast of southern France and the other side of the Mediterranean in Tel Aviv. Of course, each stop is more than just a name crossed off a long list of waterfronts. They have each been memorable coastal destinations that have helped me quench some insistent thirst for salty sea air and divine waves.

However, I reached a place in my quest for new seaside heights when I arrived at a beach unknown to anyone other than a local Japanese spear fisherman.

Two bridges and two islands past, we arrived on Shikoku, a southern set island below the mainland of Japan. After parting through the main town of Tokushima, we rolled along a towering coastline and finally the majestic Pacific stood straight ahead. It looked like a mix between the dense, mountainous areas of Oahu and the bouldered shores of northern California. And, like the light at the end of the rainbow, a small cove nestled between the thickly vegetated bluffs presented itself. The water was as clear as the Bahamas and the sun seemed to toast the waves perfectly.

The shore was stones and when I took my sandals off to feel the first few thrusts from the ocean, the bottoms of my feet were seared like pan-fried tuna. Still, that water. I anticipated cold, like the water back in Akashi, tucked into the bay, but it was like a lukewarm milk bath; layers of velvety ocean peeled on and off of my burned skin. It smelled so fresh and reflected the sky in such radiant hues of blue.

Taken aback by the sheer unclaimed oceanside I had all to myself, I nearly forgot the reason we were there. Yet another reason to love the ocean: skin diving and spear fishing, a sport relatively unpopular to the masses.
Weights, wetsuit and weaponry required, the men in our crew geared up for a trek out to sea to try their luck with underwater fishing.

Several of us got lucky in the attempt to catch fish like a sophisticated, modern Cro-magnon. One clean pierce and the kill is yours. The weapon of choice is a simple, three-pronged spear that is shot off from a thick rubber band as well as a speargun with the same sort of rubber-shot mechanism.

I had a somewhat cathartic experience in the water that day. I laid on my back and let some of the swell lull me to and fro, leaving my body in complete care of the ocean's arms; it gave me a real hug that day. I closed my eyes and the muscles in my body remained as flaccid as the water that kept me afloat. It was almost as if I felt my limbs melting into the salty puddle of sunlit sanctuary. The sky above and the comfort and covetous protection of the towering cliffside, I was alone out there in the water. In essence, I was alone on shore too. Letting go of my body's weight made me realize how powerful of a presence something has when it's all yours.
No sign of a bathroom, food stalls, beach umbrella rentals. It was an untouched ocean and an undiscovered paradise paramount to my beachside discoveries. If I gave away the name, it might not be such a secret anymore. Good luck trying to find it, though.