The enigma of "underachievement" surely makes me think about the frivolousness of today's world.

I sometimes wonder what it takes for a talent to flourish.

Take my "fat philosopher" friend Ken Shiotani, for example. Obviously, he is terribly talented. When I met him on the University of Tokyo campus at the age of 18, his great intellect immediately touched me. Surely there are puffed-up types at the university, in whom I could not be bothered to be interested, but Shiotani was different. What he said always filled me with poetic inspirations, and continues to do so today.

Almost 30 years later, Shiotani is still at it, making endless entries into the thick notebook that he always carries with him. Shiotani is spotted in the philosopher's gatherings, giving lectures, asking questions, making comments. He is such a famous figure.

And yet, he does not have a job at the university, he does not have a Ph.D, he does not have written a book all by himself (either in Japanese and English), except for book chapters and translations. Everybody knows and acknowledges that Shiotani is a terribly intelligent person. There are less talented people holding academic positions and writings books. What happened to my best friend? For a long time I have been encouraging Shiotani to do something about it, but it is not simply coming.

Probably, Shiotani's intelligence is out of proportion for those practical things, or does not simply resonate with today's standard of what counts as one's achievements (remember how Socrates used just to walk around and chat with people, actions which would not land you on a tenured academic job these days)

When I was young, I used to think that a talent would exhibit itself naturally in the course of time. When I think of Ken Shiotani, I realize that it is not that simple. I love Ken Shiotani's tremendous talents, but can also appreciate how difficult it may be for them to manifest themselves in the competitive environments of today, often based on superficial measures of achievements.

It is not that I have disdain for those who just do mediocre work and have mediocre success (maybe I do!), but the enigma of "underachievement" by somebody like Ken Shiotani surely makes me think about the frivolousness of today's world.



He is at it again. Ken Shiotani speaking in an academic meeting.



Ken Shiotani arguing about time.


Ken Shiotani taking notes in the train.


Ken Shiotani's note on religion. Don't worry. It is difficult even for a native Japanese speaker to understand it.


Ken Shiotani's note on the foundations of mathematics.


Ken Shiotani's massive belly. A manifestation of his enormous intellect?

Two young immature students going to the legendary bar.

When we were 20, I and my fat philosopher friend Ken Shiotani went on a real adventure near the University of Tokyo Hongo campus.

On the next day, we were planning to go on a trip very early in the morning. So we decided to stay at a capsule hotel in a nearby area.

A capsule hotel is a very interesting Japanese invention, where people stay in a small capsule complete with bed, alarm clock, and a T.V. There would be a separate large public bath where you can have an Onsen-like experience. For the uninitiated, the idea of sleeping in a capsule might sound crazy, but it is actually surprisingly comfortable to do so.

And it is of course cheap. Because we were students and did not have much money, staying at a capsule hotel was a money saving choice.

On that night, having secured our space in a capsule hotel, we went to a legendary bar, "EST" in the Yushima district for the very first time.

A quarter of century later, The EST bar is still there, with the gentle and sophisticated Mr. Watanabe at the helm. The EST bar is a gem in my life, where you get not only the finest cocktails and Scotch but also a piece of life's treasure. I go to the EST bar regularly. The sheer joy of experience has not changed.

Back then, it took much courage for the two inexperienced college students to venture through the formidably thick door of the EST bar. Think of it. We were just 20.

When I look back on the two young immature students going to the legendary bar, trying to be out of their depths on purpose, tiptoeing in awe and looking around earnestly, it brings a lump to my throat. Looking back, I am glad that we took that adventure on that day. Classic.

Probably we have the beginning of the rainy season.

I was at the Fuji television in Odaiba yesterday, for a studio shoot of the Best House 123 show. I appeared as one of the guests.

During the break, I was talking with Ms. Chiyoko Asakura, one of the producers of the show. When I mentioned "the weather forecast says that it will be raining tomorrow", Chiyoko mentioned the rainy season ("tsuyu", literary "rain of the plum").

The rainy season!

I seem to have forgotten all about it recently. What a loss of innocence!

When I was a kid, the beginning of the rainy season was a much apprehended event. Its onset meant that I would not be able to play baseball in the fields, and chase the butterflies. The very idea of having to carry an umbrella to school was depressing. The rainy season was such an imminent threat to my tiny existence.

After one grows up, one is less affected by the weather, as one is not dependent on it, self-satisfied in the great corridors of civilization, being fed by and feeding the web of information. One could even go as far as nurturing an attitude of disdain for the very idea of being affected by the weather at all.

The gush of realization and something close to remorse as I chatted about the rainy season beside the studio made me a refreshed person. To really feel the nature, perhaps I need to go for a run in the rain, in the park forest, and remember how I used to feel before adolescence and civilization.

Perhaps I should do it today.

It is raining in the Tokyo district this morning. Probably we have the beginning of the rainy season.

The playfulness of google

There is something definitely breathtaking about the occasional playfulness of google.

This morning, many users of google would have waken up to find that the top page logo has been replaced by a Pac-Man stage. First you think it is simply another Easter egg in design, until you realize a few seconds later that it is actually playable.

The Pac-Man was first released in Japan on the 22nd May 1980. The Pac-Man playable logo on the google front page today is apparently given away in celebration of its thirtieth birthday.

As the computer age deepens and matures, it is increasingly becoming clear that the whole thing is about playfulness. When people talk about gaming, they often do not realize that searching for valuable information on the internet is gaming in a sense, mixing the expected and unexpected, serious and joyful, in an interesting balance of contingencies.

In today's world, and in the years to come, the most successful in society would be those who understand the Zeitgeist of playfulness. The whole idea of the internet, connecting people, making unexpected and intelligent links between the here and now and the distant, is about playfulness.

So here's to yet another manifestation of the inherent playfulness of google. We keep playing the great game of life, beyond horizons and boundaries, all the way.


http://www.google.com/

Absent-mindedness is my long time friend.

I got on the train in the opposite direction. AGAIN.

I was reading Richard Dawkins on the Amazon Kindle, and got on the train that came to the platform.

Well, the Tokyo train network is so complex, you see.

It was not that I was not taking note of the destination displayed on the cars. I vaguely remember seeing it all, but my brain at that time was too busy thinking about "the origin of morality" that I did not take the small cognitive step necessary to realize that I was not supposed to get on that particular train.

It took two stations for me to realize that I was wrong. What a shame to get off the train and get on the train on the opposite side of the platform. I am sure people realized that I had made a mistake!

Well, absent-mindedness does sometimes visit my life. Absent-mindedness is my long time friend. Like an occasional black swan in my flow of consciousness, it enters my life, and takes me to terrains unknown.

With the sweetness of regret, every time it happens, I welcome yet another visit of absent-mindedness, because there is nothing else I can do about it. I cannot stop reading Richard Dawkins while waiting for the train.

Remembering Shusaku Arakawa.

It was with deep sadness to hear the news that Mr. Shusaku Arakawa passed away. Shusaku's great achievements and warm personality would remain in my memory vividly in many years to come.

I was fortunate to have had some opportunities to converse with the artist/architect. The entry of this journal on 30th December last year recalls vividly the impression left by the great creator.

http://qualiajournal.blogspot.com/2009/12/full-of-life.html

In Mr. Arakawa we found a person who was brave to think out of the constraints of the norm, and challenge the assumptions which sometimes make our lives mundane. At the same time, he had a gentleness of heart which touched all these people who had the fortune to meet with him.

Within a few minutes of encounter, it was clear how Shusaku embraced all that was around him with love and care. Even if Shusaku defied the status quo, it was always with life-nurturing effects of sunshine that he did so, never in the manner of a cold northern wind.

The very existence of Shusaku was a great lesson for life. The manner in which Shusaku spoke, moved around in agitation, and looked around was a constant inspiration. How we are going to miss him.

Here I dedicate million imaginary roses to the soul of Shusaku. May Shusaku finally rest in peace where he finds all the freedom and beauty he deserves.





With Shusaku Arakawa, April 2006.

The story before Harry Potter.

Whenever I discover the hidden agendas and threads behind a famous person's life, I exclaim, and shudder at yet another manifestation of the depth of human creativity.

Sometimes, a commencement speech at a university reveals a person's depth, as the speaker is posed to do a bit of soul searching in front of the shining faces of the newly graduating, whose lives lie like great oceans to be explored.

Steve's Job's Stanford speech, in which he stressed the need to "stay hungry, stay foolish", was one memorable example. The speech delivered at the Harvard commencement ceremony in 2008 by J. K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series, is another. She recounts the days when she worked as a researcher at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.


If you haven't seen it, now is the time to do so. You can find the video and transcript text below.


http://harvardmagazine.com/commencement/the-fringe-benefits-failure-the-importance-imagination



J. K. Rowling giving the commencement speech at Harvard.

The counter wood is the most important element of a sushi restaurant.

When I was in London two weeks ago, I saw a lot of "Yo! Sushi" adverts. One of them asked "are you a Sushi virgin?", featuring two smiling Japanese girls in a "kosupure" costume.

The culture of Sushi has spread to the world, and lots of mutations in the memes have taken place. Some of them go beyond your wildest expectations. When I was in a Sushi restaurant in Brasilia some 15 years ago, I was intrigued to find that the sushi was cut into half their usual sizes. Presumably the delicacies would look like canapes and easier to handle and eat then.

Diffusion is a good thing. New possibilities can only be found in variations and subsequent selection process. Having said that, I, as a proud Tokyo resident, can testify that the (in my view) genuine form of Sushi eating can only be found in Japan, or more specifically, in Tokyo.

London's "Yo! Sushi" type restaurants which serve sushi on moving conveyor belts are surely abundant in Tokyo. Families love them. However, a genuine Sushi restaurant can be distinguished by the makeup of the counter. It needs to be constructed with a single plain wood, with the annual ring traces aligned in parallel ("masame"). A piece of wood in such a condition, which is long enough to be made into the counter is rare and highly prized. If you have a chat with the Sushi chef over the counter, he will tell you how much it had cost him to have that particular wood.

You should know that the counter wood is the most important element of a sushi restaurant. Now you have climbed one step on the road of becoming a Sushi connoisseur.

How to behave in a soba restaurant.

In Tokyo, there are quite a few soba noodle restaurants. In particular, the Kanda Yabu and the Matsuya in Kanda district are my long time favorites.

These restaurants were conveniently close to my university. When I was a student, I would often walk from the University of Tokyo Hongo campus with "fat man" Ken Shiotani, my best friend who philosophizes.

Ideally, it is best to visit around 15:00 hours, when there are less customers. The posh thing to do is to start with a glass of beer, and then move on to sake. There are quite a few delicacies to accompany the beer and sake. Don't expect large portions. Traditionally, the delicacies in a soba restaurant is served in very small portions. Expect to feel like becoming Gulliver in the island of Lilliput.

The connoisseur never orders a soba dish straight away. The soba noodle, whether served cold or hot, is something that you finish your meal with. It is advisable to take some time to get pleasantly intoxicated, and let the time go by slowly and mellow.
Mind you the point is never to get really drunk. A soba restaurant, after all, is not a pub or a bar. When you feel you had enough share of golden time, you order your soba.

Surprisingly, soba noodle after intoxication is heavenly. The whole point is to land on the solid good taste of soba after feeling uplifted and a little bit carried away through the effect of alcohol.

The "relay" from sake to soba is one of the most exquisite form of eating known to the author.

Finally, it is fashionable to leave the restaurant before dinner time, to avoid the crowd. If you can manage that, I would call that your golden afternoon.

The blessings of science keep the curiosity in us alive.

I attended the TEDx Tokyo held in Miraikan. I gave a talk titled "The Blessings of Science". I hugely enjoyed the whole thing. The heat. The hype. The passion. My deep gratitude to all the volunteers who made this happen. Special thanks to Patrick Newell, who put much work into the realization of his vision, and for inviting me to participate.

In the talk, I started from my experience as a kid chasing butterflies in a rural town. There were exactly 52 butterflies where I lived. I chased every one of them.

In the forest, I had this sense of wonder. I was bewildered by the sheer abundance of life around me.

One question came up vividly in my mind. Why such an abundance and variety in the species? My childish curiosity was greatly stimulated. Then one day, at the age of 9, I bumped into a book in the school library. It was a book about the evolution of species. (It was written in my native tongue of Japanese. I started to learn English only at the age of 12.) In the book, the author said that once upon a time, there was this man Charles Darwin who became very curious why there were so many different species, on his voyage on the Beagle. Some years, later, after much work. he published a book titled "The Origin of Species".

It was on that afternoon that I came to know one blessing of science. Science can EXPLAIN. A curious child asks the adults all awkward questions. Why, How, What if. The adults sometimes get tired of being constantly demanded, as many of them have lost a precious gift of childhood. CURIOSITY.

Every one must remember the immense satisfaction that you got as a child when a clever explanation was given for a question you were craving to know the answer of. What do we need to keep our curiosity alive? We need the blessings of science.
On that fatal day, in the school library, I came to know that science had a great power to EXPLAIN.

Then I started to do my own exploration. I did some work, and presented my very first scientific research poster at the age of 11. It was a science fair for students. I reported my study into the diversity of habitats and life history of butterflies, making some measurements and observations. Seen from a professional's point of view, the poster was shabby, very rudimentary. I am, all the same, tremendously proud of my initial efforts to EXPLAIN the mysteries that I held as a child, chasing the butterflies in the fields, forgetting lunch, breathless in bliss.


Ken Mogi, age 10, chasing butterflies in Hokkaido, Japan



My first scientific presentation poster at the age of 11.

Around that time, I met my hero. Albert Einstein. Through Einstein I learned many things. Foremost, I learned the following truth about science: Science explains many things, but then uncovers yet more mysteries along the way.

In other words, science is an "OPEN-ENDED" endeavor. No matter how much you learn about the world, there would be yet more questions to be explored. Sometimes, getting to know a particular fact about the world makes us realize that we don't know this and that, questions that we did not know even existed before the enlightenment. Einstein never stopped his scientific exploration, precisely because he knew that science is an OPEN-ENDED behavior, although he did not (to the best of my knowledge) use this particular word.

There are several unsolved problems in the science today. For example. the time's arrow. How is the PAST different from the PRESENT, and the FUTURE? Another example is the wave function reduction in quantum mechanics.

Another mystery in science, and my own life work, is the relation between the mind and the brain. How do the activities of the billions of neurons in the brain give rise to conscious experience? Central to the mystery of the phenomenal dimension of our existence is the concept of qualia. The sensory qualities such as redness, transparency, glitter that constitute our conscious experience. How on earth do activities in the brain, which, although a very complex system, is after all an physical entity, give rise to our consciousness full of qualia? This is a genuinely intriguing mystery. Nobody has written a book of "The Origin of Qualia" yet, but you never know. Someday, someone will.

So for me, the blessings of science are two-fold. First, it can EXPLAIN. Secondly, it is OPEN-ENDED. The combination of the power to EXPLAIN and the liberating and uplifting effect on one's soul of being OPEN-ENDED keeps the curiosity in us alive.

Issac Newton left these famous words:

I was like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.


It is fun to collect the pebbles and shells in the shape of theories, facts, which have the power to EXPLAIN. At the same time, it is so rewarding and ultimately satisfying to be aware of the great remaining mysteries of the universe, our own existence, life and consciousness, which lie before us unsolved.

So here's the blessings of science for you and me. Thank you very much.

This, in a nutshell, was my TEDx Tokyo speech.



Myself at TEDx Tokyo, 15th May 2010

Contingencies are sometimes very personal.

When we are talking about contingencies, we should always remember that it is ultimately the nature of cognition of each subject that determines their nature, although certainly affected by the objective statistics of events.

The same situation can be the source of different contingency for different people. For an experienced skier, a snowy slope would not present a high degree of contingency. For a novice wearing ski boards for the first time, even standing still on the snow slope can be a problem.

For a patient being told that she has cancer, the life suddenly becomes full of contingencies. For the medical doctor who is treating her, the diagnosis of cancer should be accompanied with less uncertainties, based on his expertise and accumulated experience as a specialist in the field.

Thus, contingencies are sometimes very personal. In order to encounter an interesting case of contingency, one sometimes needs to actively search for it.

Appropriately presented contingency is a necessary "food" for the brain's learning process. One should always be "contingency aware" in the course of one's life, always assessing in a metacognitive process the nature of contingencies that one is currently encountering in life.

Contingency and learning.

Contingencies, the mixture of predictability and unpredictability in the occurrence of events, has an important significance in nurturing our brains. If everything follows some already known rules, there is nothing to learn any more. If, on the other hand, the events occur in a random manner, as in the case of thrown dices, there isn't anything to learn either, except for the realization that the statistics of dice indeed exhibits randomness. Any "learning" beyond that would be due to a gambler's fallacy.

Thus, it is always the case that a mixture of predicable and unpredictable elements provides an opportunity for learning. It is not that the unpredictable elements monotonously decreases as the learning progresses. It is rather that learning new regularities leads to a structuring of the world, in which newly unpredictable aspects of events emerge in our cognition. Thus, the brain is playing an incessant game of pursuit and chase, in which the unpredictable is never diminished to nothingness.

People are mirrors.

Reflecting on my own life, I find that people are often mirrors on which I see my own reflection. This particular viewpoint, obviously, is related to the recent discovery of the mirror neurons. But the idea is not necessarily based on, and restricted by, the neurophysiological findings of today.

When I meet someone with whom I resonate, I discover and confirm what kind of person I am. The counterpart then becomes a magnifier of my own personal traits. When my counterpart finds pleasure in the same kind of things, I feel that my own dispositions are socially approved and consolidated.

On the other hand, I do sometimes meet people with polar views and sensitivities. Even when I present something valuable and dear to me, they would receive it with cool and sometimes even disdainful reactions. When I was young, I found myself unduly hurt by such a behavior. But gradually, I came to realize that such an occasion of miscommunication actually provided a significant opportunity to recognize my own self.

People are mirrors, when they are resonant, AND when they are dissonant. Every day, with the encounters with various kinds of people both young and old, passionate or quiet, I see millions of reflections of my own image. I recognize my own self. I am generally very grateful for these encounters, even when they hurt me.

"Healthiness test" for your brain

In my opinion, the "healthiness test" for your brain is simple.

"Are you enjoying the uncertainties that you encounter in life?"

If the answer is "yes", then your brain is in a healthy state. If you are able to welcome every opportunity in which you meet new challenges, experience the unexpected, and learn things, then the state of your brain is satisfactory.

If the answer is "no", then you need to reconsider the status quo. If you are unable to meet new challenges, and tend to avoid circumstances where you are likely to encounter the unexpected, then your brain is missing opportunities for learning and growth.

In this respect, the recent tendency among Japanese to avoid the unexpected and follow the trodden road is worrisome.

Why don't you jump into the great ocean of uncertainties? It might be frightening at start, but you will get used to swimming soon enough.

The "operating system" of Japan is most probably out of date.

It is with a deep sadness to acknowledge that the "operating system" of Japan is most probably out of date. The nation is lagging behind, and I would like very much to do something about it, but judging from the daily encounters with people, especially those in the "elite" positions within the nation such as the academia and the media, the national disease is a deep and serious one, albeit not incurable.

I find some hope and solace in the fact that young people are increasingly disillusioned with the status quo. There are mounting pressures, still invisible but certainly going up, to change the current situation. One should have one's principles, and do daily chores, to bring about the change however gradually.

In Japan, the more established a system or an institution is, the deeper the problem lurks. Take University of Tokyo, for example. I have been a proud graduate of this prestigious academic institution, but recently I have my serious doubts about the nature of its constituting principles. The overwhelming majority of its undergraduate students are Japanese. Entrance to the university has been considered as a ticket to success for many years. Some weekly magazines even carry articles about how many students have entered the university from which high school.

Compared to other excellent universities in the world, however, the closed nature of the university is scandalously singular. Harvard University in the United States, for example, gathers its graduate and undergraduate students from all around the world, as a natural reflection of the global nature of today's world.

In the Times Higher Education Ranking (2009) , the University of Tokyo is ranked 22nd. The University is performing very poorly in "International Staff Score" and "International Students Score". Should the university amend this defect, the ranking position would be improved considerably.
When I discussed this point with a few University of Tokyo professors, they invariably answered that "the entrance examination for undergraduate is sacred, and cannot be changed". According to their views, the current entrance examination, conducted in Japanese, effectively limiting the undergraduate students to Japanese or people brought up within Japan, is the raison d'etre of University. If they change the entrance exam, the constitution and the nature of the University will be transformed beyond recognition. And they have no plan to do that. What a shame!

Probably it is not fair to single out University of Tokyo, but the status quo of the academic institution is the symbol of the sinking nation of Japan. University of Tokyo has been traditionally producing high officials in the government, the cream of Japanese system. There was a time when the world marveled at its efficiency. Sadly, no more. The cream is rotting.

It is never too late to bring about the necessary changes. As an alumnus of the university, I would very much like to see its entrance exam changed, so that it is at least partially based in English, to admit more international students. The time is ripe.
It is now time to rewrite the "operating system" of Japan. I hope those people in responsible positions would realize the need, and act quickly.

The radio spirit

I appear on the radio program "All Night Nippon Sunday" from time to time.

Yesterday evening, I went to the radio station in central Tokyo and chatted in the program as the host, for 90 minutes.

I like speaking on the radio. There are rough storylines and a list of music to be played during the program, but apart from that, you are quite free to organize your talks. You can touch upon your recent encounter with the World Memory Champion, discuss how to love your mother with the listener, and consider how one may deal with the post-vacation blues. What you say is quite spontaneous and on the spot, and nurtures a great spirit of gaiety.

I recall, when I was in the low-teens, it was quite the thing to listen to the radio. The discussions in school on the day after was quite dominated by the funny things that the host had said in the evening. I think the ethos of the radio was resonating with our youthful dreams and anxieties.

So here's to the radio spirit. I am looking forward to my next opportunity to chat on the air. I expect that to happen sometime in June.

Living among the tropical plants in Indonesia.

After the Keio University lecture yesterday, several students came up to me and chatted. One of them was a graduate student studying computer science. He said he was from Indonesia. When I asked which city, he said "Bandung". "Oh, that's where the famous conference was held, isn't it?" I said. He smiled and said "Ah, you know that!"

I have been to Indonesia several times. On these occasions, I visited the island of Bali, Jakarta, and Yogyakarta.

A visit to a market in Jakarta still remains vividly in my memory. I was in the early twenties. At that time, I happened to be very keen on tropical plants, the orchid family in particular. I tried to cultivate some of them back home, but in the climate of Tokyo this venture required special cares, particularly in the winter months.

So it was quite an inspiration to see the treasured plantations breathing free air in the market, apparently enjoying carefree lives in a climate that was so benevolent to their physiology.

Ever since this revelation, one of my dreams was to live in Indonesia, and have pots of plants scattered around my residence, and sip tea in the afternoon looking and admiring the exquisite beauty of the curve of their leaves.

As I was chatting with the Indonesian student, all these memories swelled in me. I did not, of course, have time to discuss the art of horticulture with the young gentleman, as our topic was on the relation between computers and the brain.

In any sense, the chat gave me ideas and dreams. Wouldn't it be lovely to put the plants just so, and do nothing further about it, letting the weather take care of them through naturally appropriate humidity and temperature?

Chatting with interesting people

I gave two 90 minutes lectures at Keio University Hiyoshi campus. The audience was the graduate students and general public, about 200 in all.

The first lecture was on the brain as a system, while the second lecture focused on the significance of contingency in the makeup of the self in the social context.

After the lecture, we ventured into one of the Izakayas of the Hiyoshi area with Prof. Takashi Maeno. It was fun to talk about google, satellites, and life in general.

Chatting with interesting people is one of my favorite exercises, and yesterday was a classic example.

Back in Tokyo

On the way back to Tokyo airborne, and onto central Tokyo by car, I was continuously writing a series of essays which unfortunately met their respective deadlines yesterday.

In all, I churned out 4 essays, letting out a total of ~10000 Japanese characters worth text.

My home country welcomed me back with a sunshine and hot air. I immediately became a "T-shirt" man, taking off my sweater, revealing my Paul Smith T-shirt featuring an apple. It is one of my personal favorites.

Once in my native country, I get immersed in a totally different context from the past few days. This morning, I will have discussions with editors of a book in the morning. In the afternoon, I will give two lectures at Keio University.

Back to the chores. However, the spirit stays. There are certain things that are left in you forever, to grow and glow.

The volcano did not hinder my flight back to Tokyo this time.

On the last day in London, we met with Dominique O'Brien, who became eight times World Memory Champion. The current Champion, Ben Pridmore was there, too. We conducted a simple EEG experiment.

In the afternoon, I met with Prof. Linda Pring at the University of London Goldsmith campus. Goldsmith is famous for being the home of the YBA (Young British Artists), including the sculptor Anthony Gormely.

The volcano did not hinder my flight back to Tokyo this time. Right now I am safely on the plane, trying to reflect on my experiences in the U.K this time.

Soon after I finish writing this, the airplane will start descending to the airport. I won't be able to use any electric devises then. I will most probably read "Darwin's Island" written by Steve Jones. I bought the copy in the Heffers bookshop in front of Trinity college.

Once back in Japan, I will have a busy work schedule as usual. I won't have the luxury of relaxing. One needs to find solace in small things under these circumstances.

In the least, I would like to have a taste of the soba noodle somewhere and sometime soon. That could be done in 10 minutes at a standing bar found in many locations in Tokyo.


See you again, U.K. See you soon, Marmite. You have been very kind to me.

Drive it away!

I did not "agree" with the tightly controlled process of learning how to drive that is normal in my native country. So I dropped out of school. Time flew, and I moved to England, to conduct two years' post doctoral in Cambridge. After a while, I learned that I was eligible to apply for a driving license under the British system.

So I called up BSM. On the first day, Mr. David Ash came to my door and knocked. "Hello!", David said. "Hello!", I said.
David took me to the suburb of Cambridge in the car. I think it was near the Cavendish laboratory. David parked the car on the roadside, and let me sit in the driver's seat.

"Drive it a way!"

David said.

So under the British system, the learner is told to "drive it away!" on day one. What a difference from what I had known previously. The "drive it away" approach suited me fine.

When I was moving in London yesterday, I saw a car with "BSM" written on it. All of a sudden all these memories came back to me like in a flood.

The conversations I had with David. The first motorway. Night driving. David always helpful and kind, and yet firm.

The process of obtaining a British car license was interesting, but that is another story.

London Skies

Walking along the London streets, even for a short time, is always an uplifting experience.

People has identified New York city in the United States as the capital of cultural freedom. In a subtly different sense, London is at once a capital of cultural tradition and freedom.

People from many countries in the world flock to London in search of something. What they seek and get, being immersed in the world according to the lingua franca of English, reflect the multitude of opportunities for a human being today.

I am in search of something myself, when I find myself in the British capital. To some extent, the nature of that something has changed over the years, while other aspects remain the same.

So I look up to the London sky, believing in the infinite possibilities extending before me. The skylines inspire me, to keep going and make yet another effot.

Trinity excellence in gardening.

I have moved to London yesterday night. When I awoke in the car, people were shouting "Abbey Road!" A surprise encounter with the street of Beatle legend brought me back to conscious life on arrival at London.

As I reflect on my stay in Cambridge, several things surge in me. Every time I revisit, I take home something valuable.
This time, my mental souvenir included a realization of the excellence of the art of gardening in the academic city.
I have been to the Trinity college premises many times, but until the last visit yesterday I did not explicitly realize the meticulous care with which the trees and plants are cultivated and maintained in the gardens, alongside the building walls, along the corridor.

Gee, what an excellent work of art! And high tech, too!

I asked the kind Trinity college Porter who was with us about the gardening in Trinity. "Yes, gardening in this college is excellent," he said. "There are 30 gardeners in this college. We have a new head gardener now. He is a superb man."
So I discovered that Trinity college excelled in the science of gardening, too. I suspect that the Trinity excellence in gardening reflects the general high standards of English gardening.

Thus we become the plant's best friend, with care and knowledge.

A venerable society of lunatics

I stayed in Cambridge for two years from 1995 to 1997, and have been visiting regularly since.

I know the streets in out. Memories would flow back to me.

Cambridge is a stunningly beautiful town. However, needless to say, the value of the town is not for the looks. On my arrival, I went straight to the Cambridge University Press and checked the latest volumes. After that, I strolled to the Heffers bookshop in front of the Trinity college. I was thrilled to see all these wonderful books, each representing years of hard work, rigorous application of logic, no-nonsense empiricism, and refined aesthetics.

I think it is simply wonderful for people with similar interests and orientations to be gathered in a place, and have heated discussions, letting their souls inside out. We are always in search of such a community. In Cambridge we find a venerable society of lunatics which have matured over 800 years.

What a solace!

There's something about U.K.

There's something about U.K. that resonates deep with me. Maybe it is the unpretending attitudes of people. Perhaps the spirit of understatement. In any case, although I come from a totally different culture originally, I find many things that are assumed and carried out here dear to me.

The newspapers, for example. This morning I was reading the Guardian over breakfast, having heard on the BBC news that they are now endorsing the Liberal Democrats.

Irrespective of the particular political point of view that one may adapt, the way the facts are presented, arguments are developed, and the tacit assumption of intellectual honesty and (for the want of a better word) "brutality" is something that I share deep in my heart. I suspect that it is something that are often "hidden" and "suppressed" in other cultures.

This morning, I would have liked to give a detailed account of my encounter with Mr. Ben Pridmore, the current World Memory Champion. Unfortunately, I could not finish the narrative. Please watch this space for some insights into how Mr. Pridmore has come to realize his enormous memory power.

Today I move to Cambridge.

After four essays and a prawn, I arrived in U.K.

On the plane to London Heathrow, I had to write several essay manuscripts. Theoretically, it was possible to do them after arrival, and make the deadline. However, I was in a mood to get done with them while airborne, wanting to be immersed in the U.K. atmosphere once I reach my "second home".

Thus, after food and wine I started to type, and took a nap. When I awoke, I continued my ordeal. Perhaps little people came to help me for being diligent. I could finish the four essays (three in Japanese and one in English), and still had time to watch the film "District 9" from the beginning to the end. The film is shot and edited in a refreshing documentary touch, rather reminiscent of the great British T.V. comedy "The Office" by Ricky Gervais. The protagonist starts as a very shaky and unconvincing man (delightfully played by Sharlto Copley), and through a process of transformations (one literally happening in his right hand) gradually become a convincing hero. The politically correct message is clear. I suspect (taking into joint consideration of the ethos behind the blockbuster film Avatar,) that simpleton films of "shoot the enemies up" mentalities are now out of fashion. Which is a good thing.

The film made me think of the word "prawn cocktail" in an entirely new light, by the way.

From Heathrow airport, I went to Nottingham. I passed through yellow fields. The close encounters with the color yellow persisted when a rubber duck family greeted me in the hotel bathroom. For supper, we went to the Indian restaurant Cumin. There, I had a delightful conversation with Ed and Paul. Paul told me interesting stories about his experience in reporting world affairs which made history, like the Berlin wall fall.


Yellow fields seen from the speeding van.


The rubber duck family in my bathroom.


Ed Wright and Paul Keyworth.

Not so fast, Mr. volcano!

The reader of this blog might recall that recently I was stranded in Munich for 4 days due to the volcanic ash cloud crisis.

Here I go to Europe, this morning, again. I will be flying to U.K. I hope the volcano would not make any sudden moves this time.
Not so fast, Mr. volcano!

The U.K. has become something like a second spiritual home for me. I was in Cambridge for two years, and have repeatedly visited the country before and since. Horace Barlow, my Cambridge mentor, is there. It is a country which produces lots of excellent comedy stuff that I love. The general election campaign is going, energized by such unexpected events such as the surge of popularity for Nick Clegg and the unfortunate (in many ways) gaffe of Mr. Gordon Brown. I have been following the moves with great interest. I admire the wisdoms of the English people, including the unwritten constitution.

So I set off to England with a lightness of heart. I shall return to Tokyo, volcano permitting, next Thursday.

You understand these things from a distance.

When you are a child, there are many things that leave an impression on you. As you get older, you grow out of these things. But then one day, they would come back to you, with all the vividness and freshness of the one time experience.

When I was 4 or 5 years old, my father would often take me to the zoo or those places which hold dear values to an immature soul. We would take the train, and go through the stations. I remember how my father would suddenly disappear, while we are walking in the corridor. Naturally I would become desperate, and search for my protector. But I could not find my father. I go on the verge of crying, with water swelling in my eyes.

Precisely at that watershed moment, my father would appear from behind a column, smiling, teasing me, saying "did you think that I had gone somewhere?" and would hold my hands tightly. The warmth of the skin touch would invariably soothe me. I would stop short of crying out loud, having finished the ride on the emotional jet coaster.

I have been oblivious of these incidents for a long time. The enigma of the human mind is that you suddenly remember them out of the blue.

Looking back, I reflect on the state of mind of my father. Then, something extraordinary happens. Instead of reliving of my own trials, I sense as if in a delayed flash of realization the anxiety of my father. I think my father might have been projecting his own existential Angst upon me.

While teasing me by hiding behind the station columns, my father's heart must have been trembling. You understand these things from a distance.

Relative positions.

As I walk home at night, these days, I notice that the moon is getting fatter every day. What a dramatic change! To think that shifts in the relative positions of the moon, the sun, and the earth brings about this salient transition gives me a deep shudder. What marvelous manifestations of existence!

We tend to think that life occupies a privileged position in the universe. To some extent that feeling is justified. Ultimately, however, that is perhaps an deep-rooted ignorance, if one reflects on great alternations of things, like the moon shape change.
Life is about movement, and movement is about the passage of time. Entities in the space-time structure is never at rest. Life as we call it is only a subset of that great multitude.

The cherry blossoms bloom and then wither. A person is born and dies. The wind blows and is then dispersed. Change is the only certain fact in this world.

"We sail within a vast sphere, ever drifting in uncertainty, driven from end to end."
Blaise Pascal

Great book of the world

Even if a book sells a million copies, it would at best reach a very small proportion of the population. The same is true for a mega-hit film like "The Avatar". Thus, the worlds that are presented by these creative works by necessity remain a minority experience.

When we cast our eyes on the elements of every day, we find incredibly rich multitudes of experience that are the true "bestsellers" of life. Consider the sensation of flavor and taste as you sip your coffee in the morning. The joy of being immersed in the morning sunshine as you venture off into the wider world from your domicile. The swelling feeling of joy as you finally put your self at rest on bed after a strenuous day. These elements of experience are known to everybody, and shared by a true majority of people.

When one is young, one is often quite taken by a work of human creativity that one encounters. Because one is carried away, one sometimes even equates the weight of the adored piece with the whole world itself. One talks about the genius of the creator in a heated manner, enthusiastic on becoming an evangelist of the value of the work. One is then often disappointed by the more or less subdued reaction of the listener. One has forgotten that no matter how important a piece of creativity might appear to be, the experiencing itself remains in the minority.

Despite the disappointments, the young person soldiers on. One gradually rediscovers the common grounds for every breathing soul on earth. The simple joy of sharing those rudimentary elements of living must then serve as the foundation for communication. One leaves one's Dostoevsky and Murakami and starts to read the great book of the world once again, as one used to do as an innocent infant.

Memento contingency.

It seems like another job will take me Europe again within a few days. This time I will be flying to U.K. I have some trepidations naturally about it as the U.K. was the worst hit country by the recent ash cloud incident.

For some time I thought that the plan would be abandoned. However, with the air situation improving, it seems that the schedule will go ahead.

I am looking forward to seeing things that I love in England again, as well as to encountering new things. On the other hand I am in a hung state of mind as regards the ash cloud contingencies. I don't want to be kept in exile AGAIN.

I will try to gather information about the likelihood of yet another series of explosions of the volcano. At the end of the day, of course, things remain ultimately uncertain. No place on earth is completely safe from unexpected catastrophes (remember where the UFO hit in the film District 9?).

Contingencies strike at the most unexpected places. Memento contingency.

Companies to my sweet sleep

I am in Nikko, where a series of temples were build in the early 1600s for the first Shogun of the Tokugawa government, Ieyasu. Now it is a UNESCO world heritage site. I am to have a joint public lecture today with a respected Buddhist priest, Mr. Yusai Sakai.

When I arrived at the hotel, it was already pitch dark. I had a nice dinner with editors from Asahi Shimbun newspaper. After parting, I went to sleep after watching for a while the second debate in the U.K. general election.

When I woke up this morning, I went to the window to take in some fresh air. To my surprise, there was this very attractive river just outside the hotel. A beautiful mountain was behind the river, and together, the water flow and the chunk of rocks made a wonderful scene.

I was taken unexpected, and thought of the long night during which I was not aware of those things. In the darkness of night, it was impossible to sense their existence. To think that the river and mountain have been companies to my sweet sleep all along gave me a surge of happy realization.

Sentimental value.

When I arrived in the U.K. to do two years' research in Cambridge, the first thing to do was to find a home.

I looked around, and found a cozy place on Missleton Court, in the southern suburb. The owner was a professor at University of Cambridge. We shook hands as we agreed on the rent.

There was a small wooden chair in the house. The professor pointed to the chair, and said, "Well, this chair has a sentimental value for me. My father made it for me when I was a child."

Maybe it was the way the professor said these words to me. Maybe it was the particular circumstances. I had just arrived in U.K., preparing myself for days in a foreign soil. The words "sentimental value" associated with the parental love probably struck the chord in my heart.

How strange is the human memory system! To this day, I remember vividly how the professor said it, on the ground floor room, as the sun came through the small green house attached to the side, in which I used to drink beer in the evening, as I looked up at the swallows crisscrossing the sky.

When and if Mount Fuji erupts.

I am still recovering from my experience of being stranded in Europe for 4 days due to the volcanic eruption. I could have enjoyed it as an unexpected vacation, but I simply had to come back to Tokyo in order to fulfill some important assignments. Controversies are raging whether the tight airspace controls have been a case of overreacting. One thing is certain. It has exposed the vulnerability of an island economy.

England was harder struck compared to the continental Europe not only because of its proximity to Iceland, but also due to its geological isolation. The U.K. is an island nation. The logistics depend much on the air, especially in the shorter time scale. In the continent people are able to use other means of transportation, albeit taking much longer time. Something is better than nothing. An island nation, when deprived of air, can go into a state of despair. Much thanks thus are due to the channel tunnel, without the existence of which the U.K. would have been more severely cut.

When I think the state surrounding my own nation, the island vulnerability is clear. If Japan loses its airspace, it would be virtually cut off from the outside world, especially in the shorter time scale.

The largest volcano, Mt. Fuji, has last erupted in 1707. Theoretically, it can erupt at any time again, letting out a huge amount of ash like the Icelandic volcano did this time. That could well lead to the loss of airspace in metropolitan Tokyo, judging from the events in the past days.

The nation clearly needs a contingency plan in case eruptions (not necessarily limited to Mt. Fuji) happen. Meanwhile, while I return to normal from the ashes, I brush up my cognitive processes so that my world model would better reflect the inherent unpredictability of the world that we inhabit.

You never know what tomorrow will bring.


Mount Fuji as depicted in a famous Ukiyoe print by Hokusai.

I don't know what happened to the serious man.

A great sigh of relief was emitted from my mouth, or rather, my soul, as I finally made it onto the Lufthansa flight to Tokyo.

I was sitting at a window seat. I was looking for any signs of irregularities outside, but noticed only a tinge of the air quite widespread, which looked like dust from some perspectives. It was hard to say if that was the effect of the volcanic ashes, though.

At first I had this theoretical fear that something might go amiss with the engine (which were quite visible from my seat, bad thing or good thing?). However, as I took my first glass of wine things started to become fuzzy. Before I knew it, the airplane was cruising over Russia, well out of the danger zone. Maybe alcohol is a great tranquilizer preventing the passengers from unduly panicking.

Probably I was in a mood for an entertainment spree after these days of trials. Surely I could be excused if I did not work. I watched three films in a row.

The first was "All about Steve", which traces the stalking activities of a narcotic, but not unattractive crosswords maniac girl.

The second was "The invention of lying", starring the "The Office" Star Ricky Gervais.

The last one was "A Serious man". I started watching the film assuming that it was another light-hearted comedy, but sensed something was different in the first few minutes. I looked at the film description again, and found that it was actually directed by Joel and Ethan Coen!

I found the film quite interesting, and wished to watch it to the end, but as the airplane approached Tokyo Narita airport the entertainment system was abruptly terminated. So I don't know what happened to the serious man.

A silver lining

Today the Lufthansa started operating its long distance flights, despite the still existing problem of the volcanic ash.
I therefore would hurry to Munich airport in a few minutes,

in a hope that I would be able to secure a seat in the planned Tokyo flight.

Fingers crossed. There is a silver lining to any desperate situation, and that is hope.

Mad in Munich

I am still stuck in Munich due to the distant echo of the vigorous activities of the volcano Eyjafjallajökull. Last evening, in an effort to indulge myself a bit and boost up the morale, I went to a Japanese restaurant in front of the Hofbrauhaus. I had a Sushi plate to the accompaniment of miso soup, occasionally sipping sake. Eating my favorite delicacies did not make me homesick or anything, but surely improved the overall mood.

This morning, I am still struggling to find a way home. The Vienna airport has opened. The Germany transport minister is apparently taking a conservative stance about it, and is being criticized by airliners such as Lufthansa. For a few hours I considered the possibility of moving to Vienna by train, but later found that it was not plausible due to several circumstances including difficulty of reservation, predicted ash shift, and the state of ongoing cancellations for the long haul flights.

Thus, the best hope apart from the opening of the Munich airport seems to be the flight from Rome. I could secure an Alitalia flight to Tokyo leaving on the 22nd. I have a train ticket to Rome on the 20th, and intend to try to change the date to the 21st at the Hauptbahnhof today, thus preserving the option of trying to fly out of Munich for one additional day.

Meanwhile, staying in this state of forced procrastination seems to be directing my psyche in an increasingly eccentric direction. I have been suspecting that it is in me for some time, but now I am quite sure.

My madness seems to be as certain as the blue sky over Munich.

Here's the snapshot of me standing next to my all time favorite mad hero, King Ludwig II of Bavaria.

Notice the resonance?


My much respected fellow of the lunar clan. King Ludwig II of Bavaria.

Operating through the ashes

In the morning I went to the airport, to make changes to my reservation. As the telephone lines are always busy, one needs to go to the airport counter physically and make necessary arrangements.

After I finished the ordeal, I went back to the city center. I love Munich. I have visited the city many times. I know some of the backstreets by heart. And yet I never expected to wander around in my beloved city in a spirit of exile.

I went to the National Theatre, in a ritual that must be done every time I come to Munich. I then meandered through the narrow paths. The Hofbrauhaus was too full of people, so I sought a quieter bierhaus instead. Prior to this "spazierengehen" in the evening, I had already learned that the Tokyo flight I meant to take had been cancelled. So I needed to stay in Munich for at least one more day, unless I started searching for other routes.

The decisions are not so simple. The distribution of the volcanic ashes are unpredictable. At present Rome and Madrid are open, but one does not know if the wind would not change. It is reported that Lufthansa started test flights to see the plausibility of operating through the ashes. That adds new elements of uncertainty to be considered, albeit in the direction of hope.

There is a heavy cap on the logistics. Since one needs to move on land because of the blocked airspace, once one makes the critical decision to try Rome or Madrid there is practically no turning back. Number of additionl uncertainties make the decision extremely difficult. Thus the procrastination.

There is one consolation, though. Despite all this, the city of Munich still allures me with its charm. Maybe I will stand in front of the New Town Hall (Neues Rathaus) in the evening breeze and forget all about it.


The famous New Town Hall in Munich. Standing aloof from the ashes.

Lost in Munich

Yesterday, I wrote something which, with the benefit of hindsight, seemed to foretell what to happen.

"In any case the soft beauty of Krakow as I approached it from the suburbs enthralled my heart. I even wished that something would happen to make a prolonged stay necessary. I would then well be in exile in Krakow, with a novel and strange pleasure in my heart. I would try to learn the unfamiliar language as a expatriate..."

Due to the activities of a volcano in Iceland, many European flights were cancelled, including mine from Krakow to Munich, from where I was planning to take a Tokyo flight. The moment I learned of the cancellation, a hectic effort to reach Munich or to find alternative routes back home started, as I had an important Sunday public dialogue planned between me and Professor Toshihide Masukawa, the much beloved and respected Nobel laureate of Physics.

I sped through the Polish, Czech, and then German soil on a series of cab rides. However, at the end of the day, I was stuck in Munich.

Now the situation looks very uncertain. I am lost in translation, and have no definite prospect of going home.

At the moment I need to check out of my airport hotel. I have literally no idea what I would do next. All I know is that I would go to the airport counter and discuss the situation with Lufthansa people.

The spell of Poland

From Frankfurt, I flew to the ancient Polish capital of Krakow. Already on the way to the city center, I was seized by the poignant beauty of the scenery as it passed by the Mercedes window. I remembered that this was my fist time to enter the Polish soil.

To be precise, on my first ever trip to U.K. I used the Polish airline LOT. The plane made a stop at Warshaw. It was well before the downfall of 1989. I remember vividly how people stood on the roof of the airport building, apparently seeing their relatives off to prosperity and freedom. At that time, there was this wall of professed ideologies between the "east" and "west". Despite that, I could only feel a sense of humaneness and warm eagerness from the Polish people waving goodbye from the balcony.
Arriving in London, I fell in love with its culture instantly, a love that lingers on to this day. Looking back, however, U.K. seemed to be rather practical and too organized compared to what impression I had in that brief encounter with the Polish people from a distance.

Poland was like that white spot in your Cafe au lait as you mixed it.

Time flew. I cam back to Poland after so many years.

In the afternoon, I was planning to visit the infamous Auschwitz concentration camp. Maybe my nerves were little bit tense in anticipation, already on my way to Krakow, where I was planning to deposit my back at the Grand Hotel. In any case the soft beauty of Krakow as I approached it from the suburbs enthralled my heart. I even wished that something would happen to make a prolonged stay necessary. I would then well be in exile in Krakow, with a novel and strange pleasure in my heart. I would try to learn the unfamiliar language as a expatriate..

I visited the place of atrocity. On my way back on the car, I found myself very exhausted in body and soul.

After having supper in a restaurant called Aperitif, I returned to my hotel room, and before I knew it, I was sleeping on the bed. Probably as a result of the mixture of prior experiences, I had a strange dream. I was strolling in a calm and tranquil residential area, with nothing suspicious going on. However, a path would lead to abrupt end, where you would hang for your life on a cliff edge. Everywhere in the neighborhood, there were hidden falls, where carelessness would certainly result in the loss of your life.

I woke up in the small hours, convinced that it was already morning. I waked up my computer, to find out that a volcano has erupted in Iceland, emitting smokes which blocked number of airports in Europe.

I was planning to fly back to Tokyo via Munich. At the moment, only the northern airports in Germany was affected. But with the conditions of wind and the magma under ground, one never knows.

Maybe I am under the spell of Poland. My plane might not make it this morning. In that case, I might be bound in this beautiful city of Krakow. Nothing is certain at the moment. Maybe I might be able to fly after all, to fulfill the tight schedule of appointments back in Japan.

I thus find myself in a hung uncertainty this evening. I am still under the spell of Poland.

A night at the Semperoper.

On the last evening in Dresden, I went to a chamber concert in the Semperoper. An gentleman looking like Albert Einstein walked onto stage, with a horn in his hand. I became an instant fan of him.

He had a double role. A player in the orchestra and the conductor. Looking around me, I could appreciate that people really loved the music they were hearing. The warmth and vivacity radiated from the inside.

A civilization originates from cultures, expands on them and sometimes dilutes. In the modern era, it is rare to find a cozy and well-collected environment, where people come for an enjoyment that has been made flesh and blood through many years of experiencing, during and before their lifetime on earth. In the urban space, there's often too much traffic. Dresden proved to be a haven for the lonely soul.

As I let myself immersed in the sublimity of music my thought would wander again. Whatever I am going to do, feel, and encounter in days to come, must be put in the context of and generated from the spirits of things that are dear to me. Resting on moments of revelations that have accumulated inside me ever since my childhood. The strange acquaintances one makes and then appreciates in life. The Einstein man triumphed.

The Dresden angel.

I was walking along the streets of Dresden, and found a bookshop. Dropping in, I wanted to by a Reclam.

The yellow cover and its small size has always been an attraction to me since my teens. The gems of German culture are represented in its pages. Browsing through, I chose "Der Ursprung des Kunstwerkes" (The origin of art) by Martin Heidegger.

To imagine that long years of endeavors by an intellect are purified and compressed in books, paintings, and architectures, and other forms of expression is quite exciting. One wants to keep learning, thinking, and then letting out, very hard and strenuous, for ever and ever, as long as life on this earth lingers on.

There was a golden angel on one of the roofs in Dresden. Its throbbing beauty seemed to direct me to futures unlimited.

High school dreams.

Though my present life style is hectic and occupied, it does not have a regular schedule. I don't go to the office at 8 o'clock every day. I am working incessantly, on the train, on the floor, under the tree, at the desk, in the classroom, in the studio, everywhere.

And yet, as where I would be physically on a given day varies so much, the only thing I can say for sure is that I would be connected.

Probably due to this status quo that has been going on for the last 10 years or so, I sometimes have a repeating dream. I am back in the senior high school, and with a horror of the moment of truth I realize that I have not been attending the classes for a long time. I think to myself, oh, what am I going to do? Maybe I will be expelled from school, perhaps now graduation is impossible.

Then I wake up, and realize that the high school days are long gone. Remorse mixed with a strange sweetness fills my heart. Yet another episode of my high school dreams is over.

In actuality, I attended my high school quite regularly, apart from breaks of a few days due to cold and flu. So the dreams distort the facts and memories, and probably reflect my deep psychology.

Although I wouldn't describe these dreams as nightmares, they do leave certain impressions on me. It is not that I am yearning for a regular life. I do enjoy the variety in my works. Most probably the dreams reflect my unrealized yearnings.

Avatar

I am in Dresden now.

On the way to Frankfurt from Tokyo, I watched "Avatar". I was meaning to see this blockbuster film, but did not have an opportunity.

The visual effects were stunning, even on the small LCD screen on the airplane. The story was politically correct, with clear messages.

I have only words of praise for the efforts of the people who made the film. The commercial success was a testimony of lots of work put into it.

It is always interesting and rewarding to observe a powerful existence reflecting on its own power of destruction.

The endangered creatures were all lovely.

I started my life as quite a serious climber.

Japan is a very mountainous country. The larger parts of the nation are mountainous, making people inhabit the limited space of the plains. Thus, the congestion of the cities and jammed trains. The other side of the coin is that once you head mountain-wards, you find less people and more trees, alluring you into tranquility.

As a kid I really loved wandering in the mountains. Often I had a butterfly net in my hand, and was looking in every direction with an eager look. Other times I was just taking it easy, enjoying the scenery, thinking about my future still in the mist.

The "catch" in mountain climbing was that you don't have a clear idea where you are, or how close the peak was. Many times, you saw what appeared to be the top. Once you reached there, you discovered that it was just another hill on the way to the main peak. The path started to descend even. Although the descent was gentle and welcome for your tired legs, it also meant that once you went down, you had to go up eventually. You thought to yourself this was not very economical.

The ups and downs. The invisibles and visibles. Narrow sights and magnificent vistas. As I look back on my many childish ascents, I realize how well they could serve as metaphors for life.

The mountain metaphor colored my youth. I used to draw a mountain on the back of a calendar sheet, with dotted lines leading to the top. I would make progress marks as I finished reading a book, and approach the peak gradually. As I went upwards, I had the satisfaction of thing accomplished, and an imaginary feeling of dizziness.

Nowadays I stress the importance of spontaneity and playfulness, but I started my life as quite a serious climber.

The bearable lightness of being

Just a short note before I dash off this morning.

Whenever I go out of Japan, I buy a Swatch at the airport. I like its bearable lightness of being. I therefore have a considerably large collection, scattered all over the place. I cannot locate most of them.

I cannot bear the heavy feel of a metal watch. I don't take the Swatch bearing with ease. When I am at a table in a restaurant, I remove the Swatch from the wrist, and put it on my trousers. Sometimes I forget that I have moved the watch onto my belly, and search for it.

My Swatches float between existence and non-existence. That's why I like them.

The octopus lady.

On my trip to Wales I experienced another extraordinary things.

I was studing in Cambridge then, and was accustomed to the restrained way in which the English people communicate. As I approached Cardiff on the coach, I noticed that people on the streets were noticeably more relaxed and musical in their conversation.

I remember quite well an evening in a Cardiff restaurant where there were about 10 ladies at a table. They were apparently having a very good time, making pleasant noises, laughing, and sometimes even singing. Later, I was told by my English friend that that kind of activity was called a "hen night".

On the next day, I was in a small town near Cardiff, waiting for my train to the West. I went into a small pub, and there, I had the experience of my life.

There were group of people with a guitar. I think they were in their 50s. A lady was singing merry songs with a group of gentlemen. I think they had consumed a handsome quantity of alcohol, judging from the way they enjoyed themselves.
I was sitting on the stool at the counter, watching their merriment from time to time.

The lady stoop up, and walked very slowly towards me. She swung her arms in a wave-like manner. The impression of the dance was rather like that of an octopus. This species of female octopus was found in a Welsh pub, in high noon.
I thought that the lady was going to the toilet. My guess was correct. She disappeared into the ladies' room, still dancing like an octopus.

On her way to the relief, she did one extraordinary thing, however. As she passed by me, she GRABBED my private part. She held it quite strongly, for a few seconds, and went on as if nothing happened, still being a female octopus on land.
The group laughed and sang on. Grabbing done, the lady held her thumb up. Apparently it was a friendly act of greeting. Probably they had drunken too much.

When the lady reappeared from the toilet, I was still astounded, as I had never experienced something like it. The lady, still dancing like an octopus, passed by me, and this time grabbed the private part of another Welsh gentleman sitting near me at the counter. The gentleman and the lady laughed together. The whole group laughed, to the accompaniment of the guitar.

As I went out of the pub to catch my train, the people greeted me, with strokes of the guitar strings. I waved back. Not unlike an octopus. The octopus fever was contagious.

As I recall, the whole experience looks like a midsummer's dream. I was welcomed to the Welsh way of unrestrained friend-making, with a grab.

A few days later, I was back in Cambridge, back to the world of reservation and subtle smiles. Something warm lingered in me, for ever and to this day.

The small restaurant in St. David.

Once I was traveling in Wales, and went to a small town called St. David. I was strolling along the streets, when I discovered a small and cozy restaurant.

I was on my way, and had to hurry on. So a lunch stop was not possible. To this day, I hold the pleasant impression of that restaurant in my mind. At that time, I thought that I might be coming back someday and visit the restaurant. The memory and hope become fainter with the procession of time.

Even if I revisit the place again, it might not be and could not be the same. The owner might have changed. The town itself could have gone through what you would call "progress". I myself have changed for sure. My belly area is noticeably larger, I have more white hair, and my mindset has evolved, for better or worse.

In life, there are things like the small restaurant in St. David. You wished you could go back there, but in reality you don't and wouldn't. For some reasons, I also do not feel like searching for the restaurant on the internet either. I would like to keep the little gem in my life forever lost and luminous.

Encapsulated

As we live every day, our mental activities cover only a small portion of all possible worlds. We have to eat, and our attention is focused on things on the dish before you (unless you are an absent-minded academic discussing the theoretical foundations of quantum gravity).

The very small-mindedness of our existence sometimes hurts me. Deeply. But then fortunately, I forget.

Yesterday, I came back from the city of Kanazawa. As I walked along the streets of Tokyo, I realized that no matter how far the internet progresses, we will be ever encapsulated in the here and now.

I was looking for some place to lunch (see, how confined I was!), and discovered a hidden soba restaurant. I was shown upstairs. Sitting down, I realized that the interior looked like the room in which the worrying brother and his colleague discuss sister's
marriage over pork cutlet in Ozu's last film An Autumn Afternoon.

I had no idea that this particular restaurant existed on earth. Likewise, I have no idea about many things. On rare occasions, I can have a sense of the surrounding beings, but then only in a very incomplete way.

As I write this journal in the morning, I weep for my midget existence. I would have liked to live up to the vast multitude of existence, but that is not to be, confined as we are in the flesh.

I am otherwise practical and hard working. Why this state of mind today? I think it is the result of the spring gust entering me.

More cows than humans

I came to the city of Kanazawa. I met with my best friend Yoshihide Tamori.

Whenever I come to a far-off land, nowadays, I think about how the internet made every place directly connected to the intellectual heritage of mankind. And I imagine myself living in the city, while fully connected to all the exciting things that the internet can provide.

Often imagination is the only limit. The world has really been transformed. We do not need any organizations or institutions. Every place is the best place to learn.

This ubiquitous presence of learning opportunities would surely change the landscape in years to come. Yoshihide, my best friend, was born and brought up in a very rural town where there were more cows than humans. He taught himself mathematics, engineering, and life. Had Yoshihide been born today, he would have gone even further, reading all the relevant materials on the internet. I am sure there are many ambitious and gifted young individuals growing up in the wonderful opportunities provided by the net.