The painting looks entirely different depending on whether you are standing 6 feet in front of it or 60 feet back.
Sometimes your ability to remove yourself from something determines your ability to perceive its beauty.
Blackrock City, NV
Burning Man
Step Back
Burning Man
Step Back
August 31, 2005
Hollywood, CA
Full Moon and Jetlag
Full Moon and Jetlag
August 19, 2005
It's one a.m., it's a full moon and I'm walking like I'm on Mars right down Hollywood Blvd.. Just got back from Japan on Monday. Just left the Thursday nite Goth Party where I came alone and am leaving alone and with a newfound respect for the phenomena tagged jetlag, dancing alone, just being inside myself alone all nite. Feels about right.
Jet lag or no, my days on location in the United States are instantly American and notably [i]un[/i]Japanese. I woke at five a.m. to share a cup of tea with my Lover before he left for location on the movie he is working (okay, I woke not because at five a.m. I thought I'd really like a cup of tea, but because I thought he might have a better day if I did - I know he did). After he left I did tonya kay American style things, like spinning poi on his rooftop as the sun rose over LA, meeting my knife throwing partner to practice bullwhip cracks, taking a nap, taking a tap class and well, trying to not make eye contact while dancing like a straight pro, a sensual expert, like a cat with her tail slammed in a door, screeching all the way, at the Goth club just now, and while doing such tonya kay American style things, remembering the dance classes I was lucky enough to teach while in Tokyo last week. And how not only in class, but on the street, good posture was wholly Japanese. And yes, I glance black eyeliner tonite, leather bra tops and knee high moon boots, and recognize bad posture (the kind that slightly hunches the upper spine by drawing the shoulders in toward one another) as uncannily American.
So I stand up from where I am lying on the sidewalk, it's a big star, matching all the little ones with famous movie names in them, - my outstretched body fits right inside that big star, as I suspected. Perfectly underneath those four silver android women statues at LaBrea (you know the ones), perfectly underneath the full moon I am standing up. And as I walk back to my car alone, feeling about right, I do a little experiment: I try the American posture on for size. Instantly, I feel the state of mind this position creates in a body (I am a dancer - this is my language). I listen to the thoughts that arise and emotions that come up and allow myself to become all the things this posture implies: moving forward, slight protection, slight insecurity, outward display of "tough".
Then I try on the Japanese style posture, straightening up, and the immediate reflection in my body is: You are here. Right now. You could be anywhere, but you are here. And if you practice enlightenment through perfect posture, you might be in Chicago, you might be in Vancouver, or you might be in Tokyo, and you will still be here.
Enlightenment through perfect posture.
Jet lag or no, my days on location in the United States are instantly American and notably [i]un[/i]Japanese. I woke at five a.m. to share a cup of tea with my Lover before he left for location on the movie he is working (okay, I woke not because at five a.m. I thought I'd really like a cup of tea, but because I thought he might have a better day if I did - I know he did). After he left I did tonya kay American style things, like spinning poi on his rooftop as the sun rose over LA, meeting my knife throwing partner to practice bullwhip cracks, taking a nap, taking a tap class and well, trying to not make eye contact while dancing like a straight pro, a sensual expert, like a cat with her tail slammed in a door, screeching all the way, at the Goth club just now, and while doing such tonya kay American style things, remembering the dance classes I was lucky enough to teach while in Tokyo last week. And how not only in class, but on the street, good posture was wholly Japanese. And yes, I glance black eyeliner tonite, leather bra tops and knee high moon boots, and recognize bad posture (the kind that slightly hunches the upper spine by drawing the shoulders in toward one another) as uncannily American.
So I stand up from where I am lying on the sidewalk, it's a big star, matching all the little ones with famous movie names in them, - my outstretched body fits right inside that big star, as I suspected. Perfectly underneath those four silver android women statues at LaBrea (you know the ones), perfectly underneath the full moon I am standing up. And as I walk back to my car alone, feeling about right, I do a little experiment: I try the American posture on for size. Instantly, I feel the state of mind this position creates in a body (I am a dancer - this is my language). I listen to the thoughts that arise and emotions that come up and allow myself to become all the things this posture implies: moving forward, slight protection, slight insecurity, outward display of "tough".
Then I try on the Japanese style posture, straightening up, and the immediate reflection in my body is: You are here. Right now. You could be anywhere, but you are here. And if you practice enlightenment through perfect posture, you might be in Chicago, you might be in Vancouver, or you might be in Tokyo, and you will still be here.
Enlightenment through perfect posture.
Kyoto, Japan
Ceremony of the Souls
Ceremony of the Souls
August 14, 2005
tolling bells
that resonate
to who will hear
clear to hell
kayo maki, a branch
is broken
so who will reach
finds their host
Rokusai Nembutsu dancers
can die
who is dead
can dance
(protection)
2,000 lanterns together
make heat
in the dark burn bright while we can
make light
that resonate
to who will hear
clear to hell
kayo maki, a branch
is broken
so who will reach
finds their host
Rokusai Nembutsu dancers
can die
who is dead
can dance
(protection)
2,000 lanterns together
make heat
in the dark burn bright while we can
make light
Kyoto, Japan
Return of the Souls
Return of the Souls
August 10, 2005
Paying by the keystroke to use internet cafes in Kyoto, Japan, will challenge my usual verbose style of journaling. Let me get to the point and save some yen, then...
How many times have people said to me, *I used to be vegetarian, but it was too difficult while traveling*. What are they talking about?! Take a small step outside the box and wow, traveling as a raw vegan is possibly the most simple, rewarding way to travel at all! I mean, food grows everywhere (there are even dates in Las Vegas, guys). It is important to remember that everything that is cooked starts out raw, if you know what I mean. With the exception of maybe chewing gum (what is this stuff, anyway). Well, I am elated to find that peaches, peaches and peaches are full on in season right now, available for a price (and as with everything, what a price it is!) at any corner market, roadside stand and probably in the feilds, if you know where to look. I found an actual *Organic Restaurant* (which is really progressive in Japan) while wandering Kyoto yesterday. And what could be more delightful than attempting conversation with the cook, a sweet girl who says that I *have a pure body and glowing aura*, and her boyfriend, the chef, who as a d.j., was really interested in my input that house is huge in Detroit. Even better, everywhere I go, I am infecting the enthusiasm of my hosts with the raw vibe: at the Solar Cafe, the chef woke up early to make special strawberry/banana smoothies with fresh cut asian pear, here at the Organic Cafe, the chef is excited to make us a special raw meal (with inquiries about shoyu, miso, vinegar and seaweed) and all are hungry for more answers to their questions on raw, raw, raw. Neat. I have no investment in other people:s diets - its just neat to see the individual interest across the world sparking a huge flame.
But easiest of all is the past three days where I:ve decided to fast. Water and tea (and a few cacao beans I brought with me) are easy to come by and have left me in the exact appropriate state to navigate Kyoto, the city of temples, during Obon, the Japanese *return of the souls*. Similar to Mexico]s Day of the Dead, or the United States neo-pagan Halloween, this is a time when ancestors are called upon and ghosts are said to wander freely while the veil between planes is thin. Temples are alive with the living in mindful rememberance, rituals are public and communal calling upon the deceased, artisians sell their best pottery, stitching and artistic wares for use on altars at the temple or at home, dancers offer protection through performances, and monks are present as guides throughout the process. I myself, paid token to a shaved-head monk who wrote a word he did not understand (Audrey) on a piece of wood I did understand. A gentleman then showed me to the altar of water where I added the enscribed wood to a towering stack and dipped the sacred koyo maki branch in the water to bleed away the caligraphy. I lit incence and added it to the smoky altar, I rang the bell which is said to resonate to to the deptths of hell, I lit a candle and added it to the horrible light altar, which reminded me that for all my contemplation and emotion on death, I am still part of the living. Let us celebrate.
Fasting left me sensitive to all these engergies and my Lover and I, before the main altar I could not read, but understood entirely, shapeshifted in a kiss and stood as beings in both worlds. Recognizing these blessed bodies for the fleeting blink of an eye they are, and making love to the part which is immortal.
How many times have people said to me, *I used to be vegetarian, but it was too difficult while traveling*. What are they talking about?! Take a small step outside the box and wow, traveling as a raw vegan is possibly the most simple, rewarding way to travel at all! I mean, food grows everywhere (there are even dates in Las Vegas, guys). It is important to remember that everything that is cooked starts out raw, if you know what I mean. With the exception of maybe chewing gum (what is this stuff, anyway). Well, I am elated to find that peaches, peaches and peaches are full on in season right now, available for a price (and as with everything, what a price it is!) at any corner market, roadside stand and probably in the feilds, if you know where to look. I found an actual *Organic Restaurant* (which is really progressive in Japan) while wandering Kyoto yesterday. And what could be more delightful than attempting conversation with the cook, a sweet girl who says that I *have a pure body and glowing aura*, and her boyfriend, the chef, who as a d.j., was really interested in my input that house is huge in Detroit. Even better, everywhere I go, I am infecting the enthusiasm of my hosts with the raw vibe: at the Solar Cafe, the chef woke up early to make special strawberry/banana smoothies with fresh cut asian pear, here at the Organic Cafe, the chef is excited to make us a special raw meal (with inquiries about shoyu, miso, vinegar and seaweed) and all are hungry for more answers to their questions on raw, raw, raw. Neat. I have no investment in other people:s diets - its just neat to see the individual interest across the world sparking a huge flame.
But easiest of all is the past three days where I:ve decided to fast. Water and tea (and a few cacao beans I brought with me) are easy to come by and have left me in the exact appropriate state to navigate Kyoto, the city of temples, during Obon, the Japanese *return of the souls*. Similar to Mexico]s Day of the Dead, or the United States neo-pagan Halloween, this is a time when ancestors are called upon and ghosts are said to wander freely while the veil between planes is thin. Temples are alive with the living in mindful rememberance, rituals are public and communal calling upon the deceased, artisians sell their best pottery, stitching and artistic wares for use on altars at the temple or at home, dancers offer protection through performances, and monks are present as guides throughout the process. I myself, paid token to a shaved-head monk who wrote a word he did not understand (Audrey) on a piece of wood I did understand. A gentleman then showed me to the altar of water where I added the enscribed wood to a towering stack and dipped the sacred koyo maki branch in the water to bleed away the caligraphy. I lit incence and added it to the smoky altar, I rang the bell which is said to resonate to to the deptths of hell, I lit a candle and added it to the horrible light altar, which reminded me that for all my contemplation and emotion on death, I am still part of the living. Let us celebrate.
Fasting left me sensitive to all these engergies and my Lover and I, before the main altar I could not read, but understood entirely, shapeshifted in a kiss and stood as beings in both worlds. Recognizing these blessed bodies for the fleeting blink of an eye they are, and making love to the part which is immortal.
Kawaguchiko, Japan
Between Horse and Rider
Between Horse and Rider
August 06, 2005
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.
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.
Tokyo, Japan
Open Says Me
Open Says Me
August 03, 2005
It's like standing face to face with the wish-granting genie but completely unable to give her bottle a rub. It's like cunjuring from the necronomicon word for word, only to find the last two pages ripped out. It's like unrolling the secret treasure map, washed up on shore, only to discover a water mark desecrating the precious X.
So it is visiting Tokyo Japan. Everything is familiar, everything recognizable and "the same". The system here is a well oiled machine that like a macintosh laptop, "works". The world is here to buy, to navigate, to explore - like any massive metropolitan area, yours for the taking. Except for one thing: you don't know the magick word. You forgot the secret handshake. Your skeleton came up missing.
I know they say English is the second language here, but I'm not sure how fluent their scholastic linguistic studies are. Only slightly better than my Japanese studies apparently. And unlike Brazil, where the locals have all day long to interpret body language and gestures, I have been discredited (okay, ignored) by more than a few urban business people upon realizing I don't speak the language.
Which only makes it more of an adventure to find raw food to eat. Japanese are certainly not what I call fruit worshipers. When vegetables are served, they are steamed, cooked, and sugar glazed to death (isn't this where macrobiotics came from?). The major grocery store in Shiba Park has a very small selection of mostly imported produce, all of which is wrapped in plastic. I had much better luck at the tiny local dive, but paid $7 US for two peaches. The real fun though happened at the famous fish market this morning. Arrive before 7am to get a glance of as many wriggling, sometimes-eyeless, bigger-than-thou fresh fish, and when you've had your fill of dry ice and the sensual aroma, wander endlessly through isles of fresh produce up for scrutiny and auction. The famous fish market is where professionals in the catering, grocery and restaurant industries come to procure palate after palate, and it seems melons, cucumbers, bok choy, okra, peaches, plums, and (joy of mineral joy) all the seaweed in the world, are the staples of the the famous fish market's local produce fare.
I'm not going to call it a challenge, for that would certainly limit my ability to enjoy myself here in Japan. I will instead consciously call it an adventure, and an adventure it has been learning how to make a telephone call, use the quiet, cushy, velvet seat subway, search out food, have a simple exchange of words or figure out what to do with the hole in the ground behind stall doors they call public restrooms. I abhor being challenged. I'm an expert at adventures.
Nevertheless, I feel like I am looking through the peep show window as the curtain closes, without another quarter to put in. I understand how this system works. It is not foreign at all. Money, perhaps more than in the United States, is "how to be a part of the family" here. Be on time, follow the rules, use the paper tickets, be responsible and respectful. I understand how to fit in, but again it seems I am standing at the speak-easy door, listening to bacchus madness erupting from inside, unable to remember the secret knock that would open the door.
So it is visiting Tokyo Japan. Everything is familiar, everything recognizable and "the same". The system here is a well oiled machine that like a macintosh laptop, "works". The world is here to buy, to navigate, to explore - like any massive metropolitan area, yours for the taking. Except for one thing: you don't know the magick word. You forgot the secret handshake. Your skeleton came up missing.
I know they say English is the second language here, but I'm not sure how fluent their scholastic linguistic studies are. Only slightly better than my Japanese studies apparently. And unlike Brazil, where the locals have all day long to interpret body language and gestures, I have been discredited (okay, ignored) by more than a few urban business people upon realizing I don't speak the language.
Which only makes it more of an adventure to find raw food to eat. Japanese are certainly not what I call fruit worshipers. When vegetables are served, they are steamed, cooked, and sugar glazed to death (isn't this where macrobiotics came from?). The major grocery store in Shiba Park has a very small selection of mostly imported produce, all of which is wrapped in plastic. I had much better luck at the tiny local dive, but paid $7 US for two peaches. The real fun though happened at the famous fish market this morning. Arrive before 7am to get a glance of as many wriggling, sometimes-eyeless, bigger-than-thou fresh fish, and when you've had your fill of dry ice and the sensual aroma, wander endlessly through isles of fresh produce up for scrutiny and auction. The famous fish market is where professionals in the catering, grocery and restaurant industries come to procure palate after palate, and it seems melons, cucumbers, bok choy, okra, peaches, plums, and (joy of mineral joy) all the seaweed in the world, are the staples of the the famous fish market's local produce fare.
I'm not going to call it a challenge, for that would certainly limit my ability to enjoy myself here in Japan. I will instead consciously call it an adventure, and an adventure it has been learning how to make a telephone call, use the quiet, cushy, velvet seat subway, search out food, have a simple exchange of words or figure out what to do with the hole in the ground behind stall doors they call public restrooms. I abhor being challenged. I'm an expert at adventures.
Nevertheless, I feel like I am looking through the peep show window as the curtain closes, without another quarter to put in. I understand how this system works. It is not foreign at all. Money, perhaps more than in the United States, is "how to be a part of the family" here. Be on time, follow the rules, use the paper tickets, be responsible and respectful. I understand how to fit in, but again it seems I am standing at the speak-easy door, listening to bacchus madness erupting from inside, unable to remember the secret knock that would open the door.
