Before I arrived, my impression of Japan was that of right angles and straight lines. A systematic society functioning amazingly efficently because of its adhearence to rules and its respect for order. A coloring book with perfect caligraphy strokes on every page, where bleeding out of the lines is frowned upon and dramatically expressive sensuality seen as a threat to this well-oiled machine.

But yesterday, after hiking through the ghostly Aokigajara lava woods (written about in a famous Japanese suicide novel and to this day romanticized and utilized for the same morbid purpose) I detoured into an underground cave where ice forms stalagtites and stalagmites like arctic birthday candles . As I entered the cave, climbing down climbing down, I was hit by the cold dragon breath of mother earth reaching up from Never's depths - a harsh contrast to the unforgivingly hot, heavy, humid summer air sticking to my skin five feet higher. How simple the sensation - cold contrasting hot. How deeply it penetrated - how complete the effect. It was then the easily overlooked essense of Japanese sensulaity made itself known to me.

Today, after a demanding climb up volcanic Mt. Fuji herself, I visited the volcanic mineral pools (called Onsen) - a traditional Japanese public bathing ritual that resembles a luxury spa experience in the states - and was gently confronted by what is becoming a stimulating theme; As I enter the Onsen, I notice in the corner, illuminated and centrally focused, a single lily stem in a thin glass vase. As I become light headed in the steam room, I fixate upon a ceiling mural, a red female character with hair in high bun, the only color against an otherwise off-white environment. As I ascend the outdoor bath stairs, I listen to trickling waterfall running aside the path, a sound only audible on certain stairs. As I return to the dressing room, I step onto the soft rittan bamboo floor, and relish the way it feels underneath my bare feet.

The art of Japanese sensuality is not one of low cut blouses and exposed inner thighs. Japanese sensulaity is not a dramatic seronade at the window or passionate kisses in glass elevators. It is the tempurature of the first sip of green tea. It is the skill with which one handles their chop sticks. It is the space between the horse and rider. It is the thought that will not be shared.

And I am all the more aware now, as I touch lips to my Lover's, he half-Japanese and sensual as the path is endless, how intently focussed, how deeply personal, and how complimentarily inclusive the Japanese regiment and passion can be.

And how truley fortunate am I to be the object of such a refined expression of the sensual arts.

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