Now out in the world

Mystery is generated and deepens when you can experience something at a particular place and time only. Misere, composed by Gregorio Allegri, was one beautiful example. It was only to be heard in the Vatican, at certain special occasions. The copying of the score was forbidden, with the understanding that those violating the embargo will be punished with excommunication.

Then, the young Mozart came along. He was 14. Listening to the Misere in the Sistine Chapel, he later wrote out the entire score from memory. As everybody now knows, Mozart's memories were extraordinary. Mozart had only to make minor corrections on a second visit to the Chapel. It would have been impossible for anybody else to accomplish this feat.

Through the genius of Mozart, the mysterious music of the Vatican was now out in the world. The Pope, after Mozart was summoned to Rome for investigation, praised his musical genius, instead of excommunicating the charming fellow.

Pondering the significance of this famous episode, I wonder if all creative genius is not like it. Bringing to the world a marvelous gem hidden jealously in some obscure corner of the world, only to be experienced by those who were fortunate enough to be in that location by chance. Genius is about highly strung sensitivities and prodigious memories.


Misere of Gregorio Allegri. Made open by the service of Mozart.

As is materialized on his belly front

My best philosopher friend Ken Shiotani is rather big, weighing 120kg according to his recent report. In this slim overconscious civilization, you might think that his belly is rather embarassing to exhibit and see. Actually, quite the opposite is true.

People love to watch Shiotani's belly. What is more, people like to touch it.

When we are chatting in a Tokyo restaurant, as I am a very good friend of his, I can poke Shiotani's belly at any time, in a casual manner. It is rather nice, the rubbery feeling. Shiotani also doesn't seem to mind as he is used to my doing that from student days.

When people observe me doing it, they would like to do the same, and eventually do so, with invariably satisfying results.

Apart from the issue of being politically correct, I strongly suspect that there is something about fat bellies that make people around happy. While naturally concerned about my best friend's health, I respect his way of living, as is materialized on his belly front as well as in his philosophy of time, and doubt, for one, the body fascism that seems to be so rampant today.



Ken Shiotani seen in the front.
In the back you see my another soul friend Takashi Ikegami.
This was on Taketomi island.

Strange dancing.

My body is stoutly built, and my legs are not that long. Therefore, I am not a good one for dancing in the style of ballet.
However, I quite like watching other people dance. Once I went to see Jo Kanamori dance. It was a wonderful performance.

Jo Kanamori leads the dance company Noism. I went to see a Noism performance in their host town of Niigata. I was so inspired by their dancing, that when I returned to my hotel room I began strange dancing.

I tried to imitate what I have seen, but of course my bodily movements fell short. In addition, my dance might have been less of a comic performance compared to the immortal silly walk. Conclusion: Mine was a physical activity without any meaningful purpose.

Undaunted, I keep doing the strange dancing from time to time. Nothing to show. Nobody to see. Just me and the air around me which receives the strange vibe.

The world at large is never to know.

The great novel "Sanshiro" ends thus.

---------
Yoshiro moved closer to Sanshiro. "How do you like 'Woman in Forest?'"
"The title is no good."
"What should it be, then?"
Sanshiro did not answer him, but to himself he muttered over and over, "Stray sheep. Stray sheep."

Soseki Natsume "Sanshiro", translated by Jay Rubin.
-------------

So finally, it was about a painting. To the casual onlooker it is just a painting of a woman with a fan, posing in the forest. It is nothing but the "Woman in the Forest".

To Sanshio alone, the painting is the focal point of his never-to-return youthful wanderings. The encounter with the enigmatic woman, the romance, the agitations, dreams, heartbreaks, and the eventual catastrophe in the form of the marriage of the woman to a total stranger.

The novel starts with the encounter of Sanshiro with Mineko by the pond, and ends with the fulfillment of the creation of the painting in the final scene. The painting hides many secrets and tears under its shining surface.

The intimacy is private, and the world at large is never to know. Nobody is to hear Sanshiro's sighs. Then the novelist comes to the rescue.


The Sanshiro pond in the University of Tokyo Hongo campus, named after the famous novel.
It was by this pond that Sanshiro met Mineko.

Lights, darkness and all.

Drank with my best friends until late at night. Had an early morning, but simply had to stay. There are nights like this when you simply wanted to hang out with your chums.

Thought of leaving in-between, but stayed until the last call was made. Walked out into the Shibuya street. Took a group photo.
Memories of forgone times. Tears, smiles, and visions for the future.

Writing this journal on the way back home. Embracing life. Lights, darkness and all.

Dissonance.

During the course of my life, I sometimes search for dissonance. Consonances are surely beautiful. To drink a good white wine in a sunlit room on a late spring afternoon is an epitome of consonance. On the other hand, disagreeing can be also glorify the soul, whether it is with people, food, music, or painting.

Sometimes, the dissonant experience visits us in a subtle form. take the paintings by Francis Bacon (1909-1992), for example. His paintings makes the onlooker uneasy, as if something is wrong with the painting, or the world, or, more seriously, with ourselves. It is as if elements of rage of disagreement is diluted, and sprinkled all over the place, so that the dissonance in distribution becomes something akin to love.


Self Portrait by Francis Bacon.

Things in the periphery

To encounter new things, you often need to see things in the periphery. The central vision captures things of interest as you understand it now, but the things in the peripheral vision, which might not be of significance for now, might turn out to be life-changing in the end.

So the knack is to see the scenery as a whole, and wait for something to "pop out" from the unconscious into your attention.
What we see is massively parallel in nature. Things are captured in the visual awareness at the same time. Brain's resources as regards attention, perception, cognition, memory, action cannot be allocated to all that are visible at one time. So you need to distribute your concerns diffusely.

How to come to terms with the overflow of the periphery is one of the most essential things in life.

Look at a painting like "Children's Games" by Peter Bruegel the Elder.
Here's a larger file. Notice how things are visible in a massively parallel way. And then let little things tickle you.



Peter Bruegel the Elder. Children's Games. (1560).

Nothing to say.

Take the starry night by Vincent van Gogh, for example. This oil painting, painted in 1889, strikes one with a vivid impression. However, Gogh himself has nothing to say about it.

Nothing to say. Creators must remain silent, after the work is finished. If the work is powerful enough, it will speak for the self. The urge to add some words to the self-standing work is a testimony of its feebleness. Weakness requires complements. Beauty and power are self-sustaining.

If you are a creator, you should not go moping about, concerning your work. You may want to do it privately, among your close friends, but not publicly.

This universe, which we inhabit, is a beautiful and powerful place, with lots of secrets and treasures, a small portion of which we humans have uncovered. It is a self-sustaining work.

That is probably why God remains silent.

Nothing to say.


The Starry Night. By Vincent van Gogh

Wild Animals

When you watch classic films shot in Japan's Showa era like Akira Kurosawa's "High and Low", you are surprised by the swift and vivid movements of the actors.

The actions are full of energy, with surprising twists, and accompanied by the very strong feeling of something living here and now.

Although the gist of the impressions is surely due to the mastery of the great director, I think it has a lot to do with the Zeitgeist, too. The film was released in 1963. At that time, 17 years after the end of second world war, Japanese economy was rapidly growing, rather like today's China. People were naturally highly motivated, with a belief that tomorrow will bring something exciting, something unprecedented. Such a mindset shows in the movements.

Civilization, when it develops, envelops the human beings with lots of protections. We become "vetted", and lose our wilderness. With the advent of the internet, we are all in a danger of constant vetting, and that is reflected in our daily movements.

To watch a film like "High and Low" is tantamount to having a glimpse into the time in which we were rather like "wild animals", roaming in the world at large, driven by our own instincts, oblivious of the glass ceiling of civilization which actually exists in any given era.


Cover of Akira Kurosawa's "High and Low" DVD.

"I am happy. I will live long"

In Yasujiro Ozu's film "Early Summer" ("Bakushu"), there is a surprise scene where Noriko (played by Setsuko Hara) agrees to marry the widower Kenkichi (played by Hiroshi Nihonyangagi). Kenkichi's mother, Tami (played by Haruko Sugimura), on a sudden impulse says that she had been wishing that somebody like Noriko would marry the lonely man. The unexpected proposal, and Noriko's equally unanticipated "yes", is a dramatic turning point in the tranquility of the beautiful cinema.
Upon hearing Noriko's consent, Tami goes on to say "Thank you very much. I am happy. I will live long." Tami has been worried about her son's future, and her own welfare, but now that the key arrangement has been made, she can rest assured that her remaining days, the last stretch of life, would be happy.

Seeing my own mother for the New year, I remembered the poignant scene from the great master. And I wished that my mother would be able to say "I am happy. I will live long." in the coming years.

Life is full of ups and downs, and I can take my share of the upheavals, as I am determined to be strong in heart, but I would like my aging parents to be happy, without conditions.


The immortal "proposal" scene from "Early Summer."

The blanket mood

As a kid I used to stay in the blanket, especially on a cold morning.

I would wrap myself entirely in the warm cloth, with only my head sticking out of it. At this posture, the wayward strings and fluffs would be just in front of me. I would watch them in a correspondingly capricious mood, slightly out of focus. Then I would gradually find myself in a virtually isolated state. Cozily isolated.

The world around me disappears. There is just I and the piece of string protruding out of the blanket. I would be immensely happy. Like I was still in the mother's womb. There was nothing to be added, or subtracted. I am in a perfect state of bliss.
Then time passes, and I have to go to the toilet, or prepare myself to go to school. With a sigh and resignation, I would hesitatingly get out of the blanket. Those were the days.

Mornings have become practical nowadays. I seldom get into the blanket mood. When, on a rare occasion, I find myself reluctant to get out of it, I regard it as a special bonus. The spirit of childhood has returned to me.

Escape velocity

I feel as if I am in a period of inner transformation. I try to do things that have not been possible so far, and shy away from things that have become easy and accustomed for me.

The things that I would like to do, the worlds in which I prefer to be, have not changed so much over the years. The key is how you can be honest about it. We have a great functionality of adjusting to the environment, and that could also be a source of curse sometimes.

Gravitational pull can be enjoyed. The escape velocity for the earth is 11.2 km. Let's see how fast I can run this year.

And let's keep enjoying the small things, like the blossom of violet on the side of the meandering path.

The knack is to be struck unawares.

I love the Beatles. The definition of my heaven is when I drive in the U.K. countryside, listening to a Beatles album, preferably St. Peppers or Abbey Road.

My manner of encounter with the music of Beatles was unexpected. When I was 12, I was listening to the radio, and all of a sudden this music just jumped into my ear. I knew it was something quite different from what I had been hearing. That was the Beatles.

The time was 1975. Although by then the fabulous four had already dissolved the group, there were always waves of revival, and I was caught in one of them.

Once, I narrated my own initiation into the kingdom of Beatlemania to the famous photographer Shimpei Asai, who captured many memorable moments of the group's Tokyo tour. Shimpei said that it was an ideal way of getting to know the music of Beatles.

The knack is to be struck unawares. Without any prior knowledge, suddenly you're exposed to a whole new realm of the unknown. It is love at first sight or hearing.

What bliss. Life is full of surprises. You have to wait for one.

Writing this, I am reminded of Miranda's immortal speech in Tempest.

"O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beautious mankind is!
O brave new world,
That has such people in't!"


What a genius is William! How well he captures the blessings of the unknown!

Full of life!

I had several dialogues with the artist Shusaku Arakawa in 2006, including one television shoot. The location for the TV dialogue was in the “Reversible Destiny Lofts MITAKA -In Memory of Helen Keller“. The producer was Goichi Hanano.

Shusaku Arakawa is a fascinating person. He speaks with energy and passion, and his words are poems in motion.

Once Shusaku gave a lecture at the Tokyo University of Fine arts and Music. For those who attended the lecture, and for those who subsequently listened to it on the internet through the MP3 file, the talk is now a legend.

I particularly remember the moment when Shusaku cried aloud, noticing that he has inadvertently let out some saliva as he was talking too enthusiastically.

"Look! In that saliva, there are billions of organisms. You see? The world is like that! Full of life!"
The memory of that "full of life!" moment would stay with me for a long long time.

Human memories are strange. I somehow remembered my time with Shusaku Arakawa this morning.


With Shusaku Arakawa in the “Reversible Destiny Lofts MITAKA -In Memory of Helen Keller“, April 2006.

The ultimate role model

It is interesting that intellectuals who are not ostensibly religious are drawn to the life of Jesus Christ. Oscar Wilde, whose life on the surface seems to be one of indulgence and extravagance rather than prudence, came to a deep understanding of the life and teachings of Jesus Christ in his last years. Wilde was imprisoned for a "crime" which by today's standards is nothing but an expression of personal traits best left for discretions. Wilde's De Profundis, written in the prison, delights the reader with the artist's in-depth interpretation of the man that was Jesus Christ.

Leo Tolstoy, the novelist of Anna Karenina and War and Peace, dedicated his later years to writing on Christianity. His book "The Gospel in Brief" had a profound effect on Ludwig Wittgenstein, arguably the greatest philosopher of the 20th century. Wittgenstein carried the book everywhere, and recommended it to people he encountered, so that he came to be known as the "Gospel man".

It is interesting to observe in what context Jesus Christ became an inspiration for these valuable people. It was the principle of individuality. In Jesus Christ we find a man who did not become fearful of obeying one's inner voice even if that was against the common sense and codes of morality of the society at that particular time. Creativity is often proportional to the courage to venture into unbeaten paths, and Jesus Christ provided the ultimate role model.

In the pursuit of individuality, "God" could be a metaphor. God represents that which is unchangeable and ever life-supportive in the battles of individuality in a society where the peer pressures are sometimes too strong and the codes of behavior too demanding.

Soseki without stomachache

Sanshiro is one of my beloved novels by Soseki Natsume. As I was transferring data into my new notebook computer, I had some time, and was reading an English translation of Sanshiro.

Haruki Murakami writes the preface. What Mr. Murakami says is quite interesting. I quote.

-----------------

The protagonist of Sanshiro, however, is different. He, too, is unable to find his proper place amid dislocated circumstances, but he never fully confronts those circumstances as a problem within himself. Instead, he accepts them in a relatively natural way, with a young man's particular kind of nonchalant resignation, as something entirely external to himself. "Oh, well, that's how it goes," he seems to say. Stomach pain has not yet entered his world. I think that Sanshiro is a personal favorite of mime because it depicts this natural functioning of the young protagonist's psyche in an utterly mellifluous style. Sanshiro watches life sweeping him along the same way he looks at clouds sailing through the sky. The free movement of his gaze draws us in almost before we know it, and we forget to view him critically.

Haruki Murakami, Preface to Sanshiro, translated by Jay Rubin.

-----------------

Here, Mr. Murakami's usage of the "stomachache" metaphor is interesting. It is well known that Soseki Natsume suffered from stomach conditions for most of his career, especially in the late years. It may well be that such physical circumstances influenced what Soseki wrote as a novelist in a profound way, affecting the world view and the manner in which the protagonist of the story moved around in the fictitious world.

In this context, Haruki Murakami himself might be regarded as "Soseki without stomachache".


Sanshiro. Translated by Jay Rubin.

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Autobiography too soon

People have this idea that autobiographies are written by people who have "done it", whose merits and achievements have been more or less established.

There are times, however, when an autobiography is produced in the middle of a career, "prematurely" or too soon according to the above stated criterion.

Richard Wagner's "My Life" (original German title "Mein Leben") was one such autobiography out of context. Covering the composer's life between 1813 and 1864, it describes the often turbulent events and life's courses of the composer of Tannhauser, Lohengrin, and Tristan und Isolde. It was dictated to Cosima Wagner, his second life, in response to a request by King Ludwig II of Bavaria.

At the time of the publication of Mein Leben, Wagner's career was far from over. He went on to compose Die Meistersinger, complete Der Ring des Nibelungen, found the Bayreuth festival, and create his final opera Parsifal.
What was the significance of Mein Leben? I suspect that it led to a resurgence of Wagner's creative momentum at a critical period.

The significance is a psychological one. Looking back on one's past, searching for hidden meanings, discovering latent agenda, understanding one's own choices and coming to terms with one's own self is sometimes a necessary and benevolent process for the creator. In the healing of soul, in the journey into one's spiritual magma there is often a key for a renewed surge of the creative dynamo.

For these reasons, I regard the dictation of Mein Leben as a process of reconciliation and regeneration for the great artist.
Even if one doesn't actually go as far as producing a premature autobiography, reflecting on one's past is surely a panacea for the soul when the waters are troubled and your volcano remains silent.


Richard and Cosima Wagner

Star of the Giants

When I was a kid, one of the things that I admired was "guts".

It was in part influenced by pieces of the Japanese manga. For example, "Star of the Giants" ("Kyojin no Hoshi"). This legendary sports anime was aired just as I entered the elementary school. The hero, Hyuma Hoshi, overcomes obstacles after obstacles to become a true star of the Tokyo Giants, the one and only powerful and popular baseball club at that time.

The idea was to make efforts, to show perseverance, and try to transform yourself, both physically and spiritually.

Somehow the idea of making strenuous efforts gripped me. When I was eight, I remember quite vividly how I started to run along the school track with some of my friends in the after hours. As my friends dropped running, I continued to run around, never stopping.

The theme tune of the Star of Giants was in my mind, inspiring the eight year old. It was a stupid thing to do, but fun.
I gave up running only when the bell rang and the school teacher came to tell us that it was time to go home.

To this day, I sometimes wonder if I don't carry the flag of perseverance still in my spirit. When things get hard and the circumstances are against you, I sometimes remember the small child that was I who made bold efforts to overcome.

I suspect that I was a loner in that respect. The influence of an amine has many colors for different people.







Some scenes from the now legendary "Star of the Giants"

Thunderbird 2, my friend.

Although less than 1% of Japanese are Christians, the custom of Christmas festivities and present givings are avidly followed here, especially by the ever eager kids.

When I was six, I wanted so badly the secret base of thunderbirds, complete with Thunderbird 1 and Thunderbird 2. I repeatedly looked at the picture of the machine-equipped and gadget-filled island in the advertisements with shining eyes.
If only I could get the secret base!

The world will be mine, I thought.

I could not get the secret base itself, though. To my great disappointment, the local store did not carry it, and the idea of internet shopping was a futuristic non-existence in those days.

I got a Thunderbird 2 instead.

Although not particularly stylish, because of its abilities to carry tons of equipments, Thunderbird 2 fascinated me. Its fat shape was universally popular among boys.

Maybe that's why my body around the belly resembles the Thunderbird 2 nowadays.

Thunderbird 2, my friend.


The secret base ("Tracy Island").
Something similar to this infused
the 6 year old me with yearning and desire.


Thunderbird 2. My friend.

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Quite close to the weakness often lies one's strength

One is naturally shy of exhibiting one's weakness. It might be a point of attack for the enemy, making us vulnerable in the world when at large.

However, one should also know that quite close to the weakness often lies one's strength.

One of the brain's most important functions is to adapt to the environment. In order to do that, one needs to read the context, and adjust one's activities. However, sometimes the failure to be flexible in the context can be actually become one's jump board to greatness.

Albert Einstein, for example. He was a non-conformist, dropping out of the gymnasium and traveling in Europe alone in the teens. At the university, he refused to address his professor in anything other than "Herr" ("Mr."), a social blunder in the German speaking world at that time. Albert's reasoning was that he did not respect him.

A more "context-intelligent" person would have acted otherwise, but then Albert Einstein could not have been the historical figure we know. The simple refusal to adapt to the context led to the great originality of the theory of relativity, which revolutionized the way we view the universe. Albert's weakness was also his strength.

The greatest physicist since Newton might appear to be an extreme example for our daily relevance, but we do learn a lot from the extremities. We should all be more tolerant of our own weaknesses.


The young Albert Einstein

Paper hat

While I was studying in Cambridge, I was invited to my mentor Horace Barlow's Xmas party once. It was a small and cozy party, with Horace's family and lab members.

Horace at that time was already of a venerable age, and yet it was fun to watch how he enjoyed opening the Christmas cracker, just like a child.

Out of all the contents of the Christmas cracker, the paper hat was the main thing. People wore them without exception, including Horace.

I have a vivid recollection of how Horace was smiling, with the paper hat on his head, looking like a five year old trying to pretend to be a king. To this day I cherish the memory of the wonderful sunshine emanating from Horace's countenance.

A Christmas crackers is a great inducer of the child in one. A child inducer is always a good thing.


Horace Barlow.

Giant trees

When I went to Cambridge, U.K. for the first time some 15 years ago, I was fascinated by the trees. Walking along the path in Jesus Green, my heart was won by the huge old trees flanking the straightway. The fact that people in Cambridge took care so that these lovely things could be preserved, was enough testimony of the generally benevolent spiritual environment of the city, not to mention the excellent colleges and the University.

Wherever I go, I look for giant trees, and try to make friends with them. I touch the bark, look up at the leaves, and feel the lights and winds that have nurtured the remarkable specimen for all those years.

The giant camphor tree in Kamo, Kagoshima is one of my favorites. I have visited the tree several times, and get a renewed inspiration every time.

Over the years, the giant camphor tree has been revered as a deity. The tree is estimated to be about 1500 years old.
It is interesting how the passage of time left traces on the surface of the bark, and twisted the whole body in an impressive, dynamic form.

Time brings venerability, and venerability is made visible by the interaction of so many elements, directed by nobody, meant for no admirer.

Thus, I am just an incidental admirer.

Giant trees are one of the most ancient and powerful art forms found in Nature. The incident makes one cry.


The giant camphor tree in Kamo, Kagoshima.

Can we really speak of "red"?

Ludwig Wittgenstein wrote, at the end of Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, that "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent."

I was discussing things with Ken Shiotani, my philosopher friend, during the annual "Ojisan Onsen" ("Middle-agers hot spring") trip.

Shiotani referred to the philosophy of Spinoza, Frege, and Leibniz. Shiotani stressed how in some systems of thought God appeared as an absolute infinite, something beyond human comprehension. Of God, no description is in principle possible.

Then I said to Shiotani that God-like things should be everywhere. Can we really speak of "red"? How about "love"? "Time"? The conversations we carry are full of intractable and distant things, the distance closed only incompletely by our incessant efforts to make the world tangible. But in the end, the essence of things remain inaccessible. Shiotani responded with his observations on the difference between the systems of Spinoza and Leibiz.

I and Ken Shiotani have been friends since we were the sweet age of 18. Talking about essential things in the small hours made us feel like students again.


Small hours talk. My best friend and philosopher Ken Shiotani, at the Shuzenji Onsen 20 Decemebr, 2009

Sumo wrestling with Akira

Akira Wani, now teaching at the law department of University of Tokyo, is a good friend of mine since senior high school. He is a legendary genius. Akira's score for the test conducted by the National Center for University Entrance Examination was top of the nation, taking 981 out of 1000. For the graduation essay book of the senior high, Akira wrote an essay titled "On the concept of glory in the Latin civilization", while the other students wrote on the memories of school life and other mediocre themes.

In the senior high school, we discussed many things, history, philosophy, esthetics, politics, etc. Meeting with Akira was one of the most fortunate encounters in my life. It uplifted my spiritual and intellectual conditions tremendously. When I entered University of Tokyo, I felt that the intellectual atmosphere rather deteriorated, compared to the intense interaction I used to have with Akira, although the university is supposed to attract the academically high achieving kids of the nation.

So the senior high school days with Akira was a heaven. I remember quite well one particular day, when I happened to see Akira Wani at the train station. He was reading a book. It was a biography of Queen Elisabeth I of England. Out of curiosity, I asked Akira "Why are you reading such a book?" Akira answered, "as I am busy with studies, I need to read such a book from time to time, otherwise I cannot maintain the balance of my spirit".

This morning I am writing about Akira as I suddenly remembered one episode from the senior high days.

In the sports class, we were one day told by the teacher to do sumo wrestling. Chance had it that I was to do a match with Akira. The idea of sumo wrestling with my respected friend was something beyond my imagination. Out of the blue, I started to laugh, and I could not really control myself. It was ridiculous, absurd, and yet so fascinating.

Finally, sumo wrestling we did. I don't quite recall who won. I remember though that Akira was quite solemn in the match, and conducted his duty as a serious wrestler all the same.

The variable unconscious

In the Brain Club (our research group's journal club) yesterday, Tetsuro Ishikwa, (Ph. D student) introduced Shurger et al. (2009). Their research reported that reproducibility distinguishes conscious from nonconscious neural representations.

I found the idea quite interesting. When we see an object, the conscious percept remains basically the same, no matter how often we may observe it. The unconscious cognitive processes associated, however, might be quite variable, corresponding to the heterogeneous multiple processes that makes our cognition robust.

Take the particular example of an apple. The visual image of an apple is basically the same, if we look at a particular apple from a certain angle and under specific lighting conditions. The significance attributed to the apple, however, might be different from time to time, depending on one's mood, memory, feelings, and the context in which the fruit is presented.

The picture emerges that conscious perception corresponds to the invariable in perception, while there is much variability in the related unconscious processes. It is the co-existence and co-dynamics of two processes of distinguished nature that makes human cognition robust and evolvable.

Portable texts

I think it was youtube which changed my attitude towards the portable modalities.

Used to be that I listened to the music on the portable audio player a lot, whether it was walkman or iPod. Nowadays, I don't listen to portable music that much.

The fun of listening to music on the youtube in the hotel room when traveling has changed my sensitivities to the portables. When you are walking on the street, or on the train, you are exposed to a lot of noise naturally. Listening to a portal music is done on top of that, which is sometimes OK, but not really perfect.

Listening to music in a hotel room, based on your whimsical moods, has opened a pathway for joy hitherto unknown, and in a sense made the portable music outdated.

Now I am more interested in portable reading. Whether it is the Amazon Kindle or Sony Reader, I think portable text has a great future.

In my life, portable music would keep having a place, but I foresee more importance assigned to portable text, while the music would return to the room and concerts. In that mood, I would be needing less of the earphone.

Wuthering Heights

The Wuthering Heights was one of the novels that I read in my teens in English language as I built up my linguistic ability and sensitivities for life in general.

The thing that struck me the most was the revelation of how Heathcliff, after Catherine's death, has been wandering around the Wuthering Heights in search of the loved one's spiritual afterglows. The image of the man walking in the wilderness, seeing the invisible, remained with me vividly, although the details of the novel has now escaped.

It is interesting how a certain type of human nature fascinates one. The respect for someone pursuing something that is beyond the scopes of the everyday has been the persistent trait of my adult life.

That kind of attitude has been nurtured by encountering a novel like the Wuthering Heights, and sharing the feelings and understandings with friends of the same feather.

Precious things are hard to find and keep.


Lawrence Olivier as Heathcriff in Wuthering Heights (1939), with Geraldine Fitzgerald.

Reading fever

It seems that something in me has sparked recently. I simply cannot stop reading.

I get on the subway just because I can read in the car. I read Spinoza, Wittgenstein, Schopenhauer, Wagner, Dazai, Natsume, Terada, Penrose, etc. and can never get enough of it.

I remember my past reading spells quite well. When I was 9, scientific fiction novels suddenly captured my imagination. I read all the juvenile novels available in the library. In the senior high school, I learned to read English novels starting from Lucy Maud Montgomery to Jane Austin and Emily Bronte.

I don't know what brought the current reading spree. I could keep reading all day, if it were not for the writings and meetings and lectures and television shootings that necessitate me.

I think there is something in my brain that has now gone over the threshold, and that "something" is telling me to keep reading, infusing me with a never satiable urge.

The reading fever is quite interesting in that it perhaps symbolizes a period of inner transformation, when one is carried by the tides of the unconscious dynamics to hitherto unknown territories of intellects and feelings.

This passion is interesting. I highly recommend people to be infected from time to time.

200 days

The entry "My mother and Hibari" marked 200 consecutive days of continuous entries, the writing streak starting on the 6th of June 2009.

I look back on my own perseverance with a feeling of humble satisfaction and resolve to keep the streak as long as the circumstances allow.

My mother and Hibari.

Hibari Misora is a legendary Japanese singer, sadly no longer with us. Hibari had a concert in the Tokyo Dome once, shortly before she passed away.

The thing is that my mother is a great fan of Hibari, and was lucky enough to go to the Tokyo Dome concert.

Yesterday, passing a Tokyo street, I happened to hear Hibari's voice, singing "Kawa no Nagare No Youni" ("Like the flow of a river"), and immediately remembered how my mother was enthusiastic about Hibari Misora and was overjoyed to be able to attend the concert. At that time, of course, mother did not know Hibari was to pass away so soon.

When I remembered the Hibari concert episode, I felt tremendously happy for my mother, who is up and well at the mature age of 75.

Well, that's all.


Hibari Misora singing at the now legendary 1988 concert.
(From a DVD cover)

Imagine no universities

I know a university is a good thing. You meet your mentor, friends, and colleagues. It nurtures human knowledge, and updates and creates concepts for future generations.

On the other hand, a university is an institution. It harbors its members, while rejecting others. I know people whose lives have been crushed because they could not enter the universities they wished. There are the pompous and self-important types who just pride themselves on being or having been a member of a particular university. Since any institution has its elements of malice, and since we are living in the internet era, let's do what we can to promote the goodies and discourage the vices.

Imagine no universities. On the internet, you can access to endless sources of academic information. Do we really still need institutions whose members are limited, due to physical constraints, which have no significance in the internet era? Why don't we tell the kids that they can explore the universe of knowledge without necessarily belonging to a particular institution? Why don't we encourage the crushed people that they don't have to feel inferior because of some stupid entrance exams taken at the age of 18?

Why don't we say loud that knowledge is open, for everyone, for someone from the street, as well as for those in the "ivory tower"?

Imagine no universities.

You just need to know how.

The tools are here and now.

Eight Below

Here it is getting colder and colder. In a metropolis like Tokyo, the time you spend inside is considerable. As a consequence, I don't wear a coat, even in the middle of winter. I don't like the feeling of being "suffocated" by heat as one enters a building, subway, or a taxi with one's coat on. I would rather bear the biting wind as I walk for a few minutes on the Tokyo street, in order to spend the indoors in comfort.

Things were quite different when I traveled to Germany in January. It was very cold. Actually, I later learned that Europe was experiencing an unusual freeze spell at that time, with the temperature reaching 20 below zero Celcius.

Here's a picture I took in Weimar, as we were walking on the street one late morning in that beautiful city. The sky was clear,
and the sun was out. Even so, the thermometer read eight below.

On the night of arrival in Weimar, I think it was 15 below or something. When it is cold as that, I discovered that your nostril
hairs would freeze.

"Paki paki". That is the Japanese expression for something that gets frozen and stiff. I remember quite well how my nostril hairs went "paki paki" as I walked through the Weimar night. Actually, that was not an unpleasant sensation.

Even a cold-stupid person as I had to wear a coat then. One could not simply survive otherwise. It seems that I have a high (or rather, a low) threshold for coat wearing, and in Weimar that threshold was reached.



The thermometer reading eight below, in Weimar, January 2009.

Gino Yu came to visit

Gino Yu came to visit Tokyo. Currently Gino is a professor at Hong Kong Polytechnic University. He was kind enough to accept our invitation, at a very short notice, to give a lecture at a class room at Meiji University, which was arranged by Prof. Masato Goda.

I came to know Gino when I visited Hong Kong for a conference. His personality fascinated me immediately.
He talks with such gaiety that sunshine seems to emanate from him. Gino is a "natural" in grasping what are salient and finding deep connections between things. Listening to his ideas is a delight for the soul.

I was glad that my students were exposed to his good influence. When you give a talk, the manner is as important as the content. A dull speaker bores the audience not necessarily because of poor ingredients but often due to a bad attitude.

Had a fun time afterwards in a Izakaya near the university.

Many thanks for your time and inspirations, Gino.



Gino Yu giving the lecture in Tokyo

Tree house

When I made my pilgrimage to Bayreuth this last summer, there were several things besides Wagner that I captured my imagination.

I remember one house on the street vividly, on my way to the Festival house from the hotel. There was a tree house in the garden.

And it was just a private house. Imagine a tree house in your backyard! What fantastic child years you would have!
I have always been fascinated by the trees. Staying high up among the boughs for a prolonged time has been one of my unfulfilled dreams.

We noisy brats used to climb the trees, to the horror of the onlooking adults, and do various things. Somehow the tree time liberated our spirit.

From evolutionary point of view, it might be that one is more at ease and relaxed when one is on the tree, avoiding the hazard that comes from being on the ground, which makes one vulnerable to the attacks by predators. Climbing the tree, needless to say, gives one a magnificent view.

Books are made of trees, and the spiritual effects are accidentally similar to those by the trees. Reading books gives you the vantage point of a wider vista, where you can breathe more freely and without restraint.

Reading books on a tree bough becomes thus a fascinating combination. Something I haven't done to my satisfaction yet in my life.



The lovely tree house in Bayreuth.

Pub time in London

As the year comes near to the end, I remember things that have passed me. One of the highlights of my sojourn this round of the earth's sun-wise orbit was the visit to London with Shinya Shirasu in summer.

Although it was a short visit (only a crazy two nights stay), some things stand vividly in my memory. The Pub time for example. My favorite memory is facing Shinya in the London Pub, especially the one in Kensington, where we sipped the typically lukewarm liquid of English pride in that golden afternoon. I would have liked to spend more time like that. In actuality, our heavenly pastime lasted only for one hour, at the most.

I always say that one can "grow" the past if you return to it repeatedly in your memory. The pub time in London with Shinya is one of the precious mnemonic seeds that I would like to nurture as I close my eyes and escape into the kingdom of recollections and imaginations.

The lights corridor

The Meiji Shrine is one of my favorite places. I would like to stroll this haven in the heart of Tokyo.

The lights are never the same, as they come through the leaves of the trees, which have grown into mature shapes 100 years after they were transplanted from many places across the island. Before the transplantation, the shrine site used to be a grassland, I hear.

I would like to ponder and weigh, as I pass through the lights corridor. I come face to face with my unconscious, where I find many strange animals and vegetations.

And my whole body including the brain is the only recording devise. Photography has a limited power in capturing the moment. As I stroll, I vividly sense the environment and myself. I hark, remember, and project.

Before long I find myself in the busy Tokyo streets again. The magic is over.


The Meiji Shrine forest on a recent visit.

The headmaster's platform.

I visited a couple primary schools on Uku island, an small island off Kyushu with a population of 3200.

In the school play ground, I found a very familiar platform.

Used to be that when there was a school gathering, usually in the morning, the headmaster would stand on the platform, and deliver a list of "dos and don'ts" to the pupils.

Other teachers and sometimes pupils would stand on the platform. When I occasionally stood on the platform, to make announcements as a representative of the pupil's body or to receive an award from the headmaster, I became very nervous. My legs would literally tremble.

Such a bittersweet nostalgia surges within one's bosom as one looks at such a object of sentimental values. The headmaster's platform.

All because a child has a magical power of imagination.



The headmaster's platform

In a nutshell, yes.

I am in Hakata right now, writing this entry. In the afternoon I am going off to Uku island, where an internet connection is not likely available. I am writing this entry in advance, and register it on the blogger system to be published on Monday morning JST, in order not to break the writing streak of the qualia journal, which would achieve 200 consecutive days in a row on 15th December 2009.

I am with Prof. Meguro of Kyushu University. We are discussing lunch. When I was asked what I would like, I answered "well, I would love to have something that comes in white, opaque soup, with a long thing made of flour, and a red fish roe which is rather spicy as topping, and you could have a second helping of the long flour thing if you wanted."

Mr. Atsushi Sasaki of Dentsu laughed, and simply said "you want a ramen noodle!"

In a nutshell, yes.

Prof. Meguro is giving directions as to where to find a ramen noodle restaurant. I am not sure if my wishes would come true.

I could not have been otherwise.

A few days ago I wrote about the Kaki (persimmon fruit). The sight of a tree standing against the blue sky, with its boughs full of kaki fruits, is one of the most striking and vivid in the seasons of autumn and early winter. As an inhabitant of the Kanto plane, I am so accustomed to it. When out in the suburbs, I am unconsciously seeking for the signs of season, the Kaki trees and Susuki (Japanese pampas grass), for example.

That sensitivities and feelings are products of the environment is not a striking observation. It is very much true nevertheless. We humans are products of the soil, just as the trees, which cannot move about by themselves, are products of the grounds on which they grow.

Spinoza, in his magnum opus "Ethica", argues that this universe could have been otherwise, due to the perfect nature of God. If so, we are products of this particular universe by necessity, and we could not have been otherwise.

To think that I could not have been otherwise brings a strange consolation.

The Orange Revolution.

When I was going to the Kindergarten there was only one drink that a kid loved. Fanta. In the children's gatherings, the adults would bring bottles of Fanta, as special treats.

First everybody seemed to love the grape flavor. When the pleasure time came, our small hands would invariably reach for the Fanta Grape bottles. There was actually a competition, in order to secure our own grape bottles, and not to be forced to accept the less desirable orange. It appeared as if the Reign of Grape would flourish for ever.

Then something extraordinary happened. One day somebody realized that the orange was not such a bad flavor. Maybe it was even better than the grape. A silent revolution was developing in front of our little eyes. Like a dramatic turn of events in a Reversi game, more and more kids would start preferring the orange flavor, until one day the little hands would reach only for the orange bottles. The grape bottles stood unattended. It was a sad sight.

To this day, I remember quite vividly how my world-view shook as the trend changed. Although it was a surely small shift in taste, I felt as if the ground on which my feet stood collapsed.

By the time I entered the elementary school, the Orange Revolution was complete. For some years, some of us small mortals did not forget how our sensitivities had been touched.

Eating Kaki

In Japanese, some words have double meanings. "kaki", for example, can indicate a persimmon fruit. It can also mean the "oyster". A strange property of natural language comprehension is that based on the context, one tacitly assumes that "kaki" is one or the other. When "kaki" is used in the context of the persimmon fruit, one almost never thinks of the other possible meaning.

There is a famous haiku poem which can be translated as "Eating kaki, The bells of the Horyuji temple, Ringing"

Kaki here obviously refers to the persimmon fruit, which is a fruit of the autumn. It is fitting. One remembers how beautiful Horyuji temple, one of the oldest surviving wooden buildings, appears when the leaves turn red in preparation for winter.

Yesterday, when walking in the street, it suddenly occurred to me, for the first time ever in my life, that based on the sound alone, "kaki" in the famous haiku poem can also mean "oyster".

"Eating Oyster, The bells of the Horyuji temple, Ringing".

The scene is changed dramatically. What a mismatch! A comical feeling is invoked, and the haiku poem is changed beyond recognition.

The strange thing is that it never occurred to me to interpret the poem in this way--until yesterday, that is. I wonder what struck my brain out of the blue. A strange combination of neural activities, perhaps.

Collision without prior knowledge

I came to a Haiku meeting ("Kukai") at Yugawara, a famous Onsen (hot spring) retreat, about one hour from Tokyo.

The meeting was organized by Madoka Mayuzumi, my good friend and a famous haiku poet.

I took the bath after a strenuous and yet enjoyable haiku session. A hot spring is a godsend for a schedule-pursued, overworked brat like me. I stretched my arms and legs, and took a deep sigh.

After thus bringing back life to my system, I was putting my clothes on. In Japanese Onsens, it is customary to have an official notice of the effective elements contained in the hot spring water in the room next to the hot spring. It is somehow required by law, I think. Anyway, I have somehow made it my custom to read the list of effective elements only after I have taken the bath.
It is just a matter of taste. I don't like to pre-configure my mind. I would like to dip myself into the hot water without consciously knowing what the experience is supposed to do for me. If I had preconceptions, it would "taint" the purity.

The philosophy is not just for taking the hot spring. Knowing the factual details only after the actual experience has become my way of life. Since we know so little about the conditions of life, collision without prior knowledge seems to be the only way.

Make me whole

De Prufundis, an essay in the form of a letter written during imprisonment by Oscar Wilde, has such a beautiful ending.

Wild imagines how he would feel on the day of release, and he thinks of the flowers that would greet him.

----------
I tremble with pleasure when I think that on the very day of my leaving prison both the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens, and that I shall see the wind stir into restless beauty the swaying gold of the one, and make the other toss the pale purple of its plumes, so that all the air shall be Arabia for me.
------------

Then the essay ends as Wilde ponders how he would still be rejected by society, but would be made whole by nature, who would cleanse him in great waters.

-----------
Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.
------------

When I read this, I realized that all pieces of conventional reasoning about the famous "Mary's Room" thought experiment by Franck Jackson have been missing one crucial thing.

Mary, when she is released from her black-and-white world, and sees the wild flowers for the first time, would not only learn the color qualia but also weep, deeply moved, her very existence shuttered and them made anew, by her encounter with the brave new world.

She has been made whole.

Hideo Kobayashi

Close to midnight I had a phone call from Shinya Shirasu. He was drinking with his friends, and wondered if I could join them. I had my work, so I said regretfully that I could not make it.

Maybe Shinya's call had a strange effect on my unconscious. I had a dream. In it I was lecturing in a room. After the lecture, I realized that Hideo Kobayashi was among the audience. In a sudden pang of regret, I reproached myself for not noticing the legendary critic's presence. Then my heart started to appreciate how warm and embracing the smile of Hideo Kobayashi has been. Because of the warmth, it was now all right. I still thought I would have loved to talk to Hideo Kobayashi, but all was well as it was.

When I awoke, I realized that Hideo Kobayashi is dead for a long time.

Hideo Kobayashi is Shinya's grandfather. It is strange how a small experience can be wondrously interpreted in one's unconscious, reflected in the occasional manifestations in the conscious, while the vast ocean of the unconscious remains inaccessible.

Harking

I don't know what is happening, but I seem to be less interested in the physical testimonies of life such as photos, and sound recordings these days.

They are certainty useful. Without photography, for example, I would have never known how Albert Einstein looked. If even a second of Napoleon's voice was here with us, it would have changed our perception of history beyond recognition.

However, as far as I am concerned, I seem to have come to the realization that in my life, precious things are never recorded. These moments would remain within me as a faint trace of memory, if they retain their feeble presences at all.

I would certainly keep taking photos and making MP3 recordings. But at the same time I would be harking, attending to my inner traces, remembering the times that have been, which is possibly the only significant action, against civilization, in the continuation of an ancient spirit.

Squid

Right now I am in Kochi city, where the ENJIN 01 conferences are being held.

In the evening, after a long day of strenuous and yet enjoyable schedule, we went to a Sushi restaurant. We ordered some delicacies. The Aori Squid was one of them.

As I chewed the sweet and strongly-textured meat, I suddenly remembered how as a child it was hard to swallow a squid.

I always wanted to behave like an adult, so when the Sushi came I tried the squid like the grown-ups. However, as I chewed on, the squid in my mouth would start to have the texture of gum. I could not bite them into pieces. Gradually the squid would lose all tastes. A mouthful of culinary nightmare was in the making.

It may have been the junior high school days when I finally learned how to swallow a squid. Now I enjoy them hugely, accompanied by beer and sake.

Growing up is learning how to swallow a squid.

My canals

On a recent visit to an elementary school, I remembered one thing which has been cherished in my bosom for so many years.
I don't quite know how it started, but when I was a 2nd grader the fad among boys was to make "canals" on the desk in the classroom. The wood was soft, and you could cut tracks with the ball point pen. The ball would eventually come off the pen, which one used as a "vessel" which "voyaged" through the canals.

Needless to say, the vandalism was not particularly recommended by the school teacher. You were not supposed to damage the school property. In a strange twilight of illegal activities that is open only to a child, we competed who could make the most interesting map of canals on the desk.

It was a play in imagination. I developed a kingdom, named the places, and the network grew in my mind like a throbbing organization.

At the end of the semester, there was a desk shuffle, and I had to say goodbye to my beloved kingdom. The canals were still within my reach though. In March, when I became a 3rd grader, we moved to a new classroom. On the last afternoon, I went to touch the wood. I vividly remember my canals lit by the sunshine from the window.

I have not seen my canals since. How I miss them.

Flower-like life

I was reading Oscar Wilde's De Profundis, and came across this sentence, where Wilde refers to Jesus Christ.

"He was the first person who ever said to people that they should live 'flower-like lives.' He fixed the phrase. He took children as the type of what people should try to become. He held them up as examples to their elders, which I myself have always thought the chief use of children, if what is perfect should have a use."

How true. We should all try to become children. The children in us is the only hope in our lives on this earth.

Science tells us about neoteny. We retain that special gift of childhood, to learn new things, and integrate them into our system.
The everyday of a child is literally the succession of a flower-like life, where, with learning new things, flowers bloom and blossom. Without awakening to the previously unknowns, the plants in our heart perish.