APCAP 2009 call for papers.

The fifth Asia-Pacific Computing and Philosophy Conference.
1st & 2nd October, 2009, at
University of Tokyo

You are invited to submit an abstract of up to 1000 words by 15th July, 2009.

There are eight tracks. I am going to chair the "Social Construction of the Self" session.


Social Construction of the Self
Track Chair: Ken MOGI
The self is a phenomenologically salient and functionally important aspect of human cognition. The discovery of the mirror neurons (i.e., cells in the prefrontal cortex representing actions of the self and others) has added a new and important dimension to the empirical investigation into this fundamental aspect of existence. Findings in cognitive neuroscience have revealed how the self is constructed through the interaction with others. The self is a socially constructed, embodied phenomenon. Various aspects of cognition, e.g., active vision, sensori-motor coordination, perception of time, body image, emotion, and memory, make sense only in reference to the self. Here experts from neuroscience, philosophy, artificial life, physics and other fields discuss the newly emerging science of the self. The session will be empirically based while trying to be theoretically enterprising at the same time.

AP-CAP 2009.

Sunset

When I was a kid, I used to imagine that it is always sunset somewhere on earth. Actually, as the earth rotates on its axis, the relation to the sun is always the same in essence. It is only that different parts of the globe are illuminated, and the bright and dark pattern moves on its surface.

There is a translational invariance in the time of the earth. Bound to Tokyo, I think that it is day, then twilight, and then night. But from the earth's point of view, it is always the same earth time.

When it comes to lives on earth, there is also a translational invariance. At any moment, somebody is being born. A loved one is passing away. Others are in the prime of juvenile joy. Some are feeling the decline. Although the points in the time of life is different for each one of us, taken on the earth scale as a whole, there is always and will ever be just one life time.

At any given moment, it is always sunset for the life of somebody among us.

Cloud of regret

Findings in the cognitive neurosciences suggest that the orbitofrontal cortex, along with other loci, is involved in regret.

Regret is fascinating. Therein you have a comparison between the factual and the counterfactual. You have chosen A (the factual), when you could have chosen B (the counterfactual). By regretting, you are going on a time travel, to that fateful moment of decision making, and wish that you could have chosen the other alternative.

Regret invokes a often dramatic change of your world view. The fact that you have chosen A instead of B reflects the value system that you had at that moment. By regretting, you repent and try to modify, if you can, the frame of cognition and the set of biases and prejudices that led to the regrettable choice, ultimately constituting the person that is you. This reconfiguring of personality is often painful, but is worth every agony in the long run.

Humans too often ignore incidents of failure, trying to forget what have happened. While oblivion is sometimes certainly beneficial, there is a silver lining to every cloud of regret, however thick it is.

Anticonsciousness?

There are countless electrons in the universe, and yet they all have exactly the same mass and charge. Why should all the electrons have exactly the same mass and charge?

Richard Feynman, in his Nobel Lecture , tells us of a telephone conversation with another great physicist, John Wheeler.

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As a by-product of this same view, I received a telephone call one day at the graduate college at Princeton from Professor Wheeler, in which he said, "Feynman, I know why all electrons have the same charge and the same mass" "Why?" "Because, they are all the same electron!" And, then he explained on the telephone, "suppose that the world lines which we were ordinarily considering before in time and space - instead of only going up in time were a tremendous knot, and then, when we cut through the knot, by the plane corresponding to a fixed time, we would see many, many world lines and that would represent many electrons, except for one thing. If in one section this is an ordinary electron world line, in the section in which it reversed itself and is coming back from the future we have the wrong sign to the proper time - to the proper four velocities - and that's equivalent to changing the sign of the charge, and, therefore, that part of a path would act like a positron."

From Richard Feynman's Nobel lecture, December 11, 1965
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The basic idea is that antimatters (such as positrons) can be regarded as matters (such as electrons) traveling "backwards" in time (e.g. from the future to the past). Then, you can conceive the world-line of a single electron traveling in a zigzag manner from the past to the future, and then from the future to the past, and so on and so on, giving rise to all the electrons and positrons in the universe.

The catch is, as Feynman says, that then there would have to be exactly the same number of positrons as electrons. Actually, the universe as we know it is composed mainly of matters, an asymmetry which has not been properly accounted for yet. Despite this catch, Wheeler's single electron universe is a fascinating idea.

Talking of the mind-brain problem, it appears that despite the superficial differences, we all have basically the same form of consciousness. In that sense, there is only one consciousness, like there appears to be only one electron.

Maybe we can conceive a single consciousness traveling in a zigzag manner like Wheeler's single electron in the space-time. Then, of course, we should have an anticonsciousness, whatever it may be.

That is yet to be found, but who knows?

Void

On 3rd January 2007, I posted in this journal an essay titled "Managing insanity in a proper way". Therein I quoted Ken Shiotani, my philosopher friend. I reproduce his words of wisdom here.

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Another Shiotani quote stayed with me. I think it was one of these days when I was wont to hang out with him in Tokyo bars and Izakayas. After speaking wishfully of his friends who was "climbing the ladders" smoothly and becoming authors and associate professors, Shiotani sighed and said thus.

"I don't want to be a star myself. I would rather like to be the dark void in which all these constellations shine".

From "Managing madness in a proper way". The Qualia Journal, 3rd January 2009
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Coming back from Hong Kong to Tokyo on the airplane, I thought that one could certainly imagine that one was the dark void in which the stars shone. Imagining the self as "voidness" makes one feel so eerie, lonely, transparent, isolated, omnipotent, permeating, and yet so intimate. I think it was this touch of intimacy which struck me most when I first heard Ken Shiotani mention the phrase.
We all need to have an element of the void sensu Shiotani in our heart, in order to remain a decent human being. We should never be dazzled by the stars alone.

Immediacy

I am in Hong Kong now, attending a conference on the science of consciousness. In the morning, I gave a talk in the auditorium of the Hong Kong Polytechnic University.
I started my talk with a discussion on immediacy. The slide on this theme read thus.

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The immediacy hypothesis

The phenomenological contents of a subject at a particular specious moment is determined by, and only by, the properties of physical properties of the subject’s brain at that moment
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Another slide read thus.

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Response selectivity is established in essence as a statistical property.
The selectivity to a bar of certain orientation can be empirically established only by the exposure to and comparison with the activities invoked by bars of different orientations.
Such a statistical property is not immediately available for the subject at a particular psychological moment, and cannot constitute the immediate cause of the phenomenological experience.
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Our consciousness is always enshrined in the immediate now, and yet, we can reflect on the past, dream about the future. Immediacy also applies to space. We are constrained by the spatially immediate. And yet, we can conceive of things distant and non-existent.
Perhaps it is because we are ever prisoned in the immediate that we developed phenomenological state of minds such as intentionality.

Cloud.

On August 9th, 1945, an airplane approached Kokura, a city in the northern part of Kyushu island. My mother, a girl of 9 then, lived in Kokura with her parents. It was a cloudy day at Kokura. The airplane circled above Kokura, looking for a break in the cloud. But the cloud covered the city, and the fuel started to run low.

So the plane went to Nagasaki instead.

If it had not been cloudy over Kokura on that day, my mother would not have lived to meet my father. I would not have been born.

So I owe my existence to the cloud over Kokura on that fateful day.

Advent of Gabriel

I have not figured out how and why yet, but I do observe that creative people sometimes have very strong visions, bordering on the hallucinatory, which would, taken literally, raise the eyebrows of a rationalist.

I met with one of Japan's leading photographers, Shimpei Asai, the other day. One of Shimpei's famous works was when he photographed the Beatles Japan Tour in 1966. He captured the Fabulous Four in many interesting poses while they relaxed in Tokyo hotel rooms, etc.

Shimpei is a man of common sense and a sharp sense of aesthetics. I enjoyed the conversation hugely, appreciating his deep understanding of the human condition. Then, in the middle of our conversation, he mentioned matter-of-factly that he had a guardian angel named Gabriel.

"Gabriel would come while, for example, I am having a meeting with a group of editors. When I notice that Gabriel has entered the room, I would smile to Him. I smile very secretly, so that the people around me don't notice it".

The advent of Gabriel was so sudden that it took me by surprise. But then, the conversation was practical and quite logical otherwise. Gabriel was the only hint of "insanity" (in the conventional sense) that came along during our two hours long discourse. Shimpei was very considerate of people's feelings, exhibited a broad knowledge, and above all very intelligent. Gabriel was like a gush of wind that suddenly came and then went away, leaving an enchanting fragrance.

I wonder if there isn't always a Gabriel in creative people's mind life.

Experimentation

I regard this blog as an experimentation in the expression of things I encounter during the course of my life. I started to learn English at the late age of 12 as I entered the junior high school, and then only very clumsily and slowly. That means that a vast domain of my own experience since childhood is not "tagged" and "structured" within the context of the English language.

I suspect that there is a common problem shared by people who have learned a second language only relatively late in their life. Namely, the accumulation of personal experience since infancy has not been transferred properly into the universe of the second language.

When a speaker utters a word, all the details of the history of his life is behind it, giving the speech force and energy. Only after the translation of at least the salient episodes of one's life can one be expressive in the second language.

Musical instruments

The speeches of some people reach us as heavenly music. With some people under certain situations, every second of listening to becomes a torture.

People don't realize that the art of talking is not simply that of a manipulation in meanings. When speaking, people become musical instruments. The expression "it is music to my ears" is a compliment for those who excel in this art of speech. It is not only a metaphor. It is a very accurate description of what is actually happening.

The art of speech is not unidirectional. While listening to others, people become musical instruments themselves. By immersing ourselves in the flow of words, we can resonate to what is being said, magnifying and sometimes even going beyond the original intent and scope of the speaker.

Thus, without holding a flute or sitting before a piano, we can train ourselves as musical instruments, as we go through the usual rounds of everyday life.

The moon girl.

I admit I used to be very clumsy in my youth. During my senior high school days, I found it difficult to talk to girls naturally. I attended a co-ed school, so there were many opportunities, real and imagined, to get friendly with my female counterparts. But these occasions almost never materialized. I was enshrined in an imaginary kingdom of books and music, and just looked straight on to the unforeseen and uncertain future.

It is not that I was not attracted to the feminine. In those days, I used to draw pictures of girls stretching one arm towards the moon in the sky. In my imagination, the moon was silvery, and glistening very brightly in the darkness of night sky. The girl had a long hair, and was always looking towards the moon, with her eyes gazing at the shining satellite of the earth. I felt a great sympathy towards this girl of strange behaviors. There was no real person who served as the model. I do not know what the moon girl symbolized.

A lot of waters have flown under the bridge, and my clumsiness melted away, opening my way for the admittance into the human race. Yet I still remember the moon girl very vividly. There is still some energy surrounding her, so apparently a part of me is still in the moonshine. To commemorate the still unnamed existence of my youth, here I make a rough reproduction of my celestial soul mate of bygone days.


The moon girl. Reproduced by the author.

Milk scare

Laughter is very much related to the emotion of fear and uneasiness. The classic act of a man tripping over a banana skin involves the danger of physical injury. The false-alarm theory postulates that laughter has evolved as a mechanism to reassure one's mates when a possibly menacing situation has dissolved. The banana skin act is comic because it hinges upon physical vulnerability, while not being actually damaging.
One is captured by an urge to burst into laughter when one is inherently fearful or uneasy. I vividly remember an example from my own childhood. When I was in the second grade of elementary school, suddenly a "milk scare" seized us boys. This was nothing serious for the health. It was a comic scare.
I don't exactly recall who started it, but I can testify that before knowing it, I was one of the active protagonists. We were served with school meals during lunch time. The idea was to say funny things or make comic gestures while somebody was drinking milk from the bottle. The victim would burst into laughter, and squirt the milk into the air. I remember a particularly effective operation when one of my best friends literally became a white fountain. After the incident, there were stains of white liquids all over. Some of them were on our faces and hands. We the brats shouted merrily in the aftermath, and bursted into peals of laughter.
Although the whole thing was done in good spirits, we were literally scared all the same. Fearing that somebody would make you laugh, you drank up the milk as soon as it was delivered. The enormous peer pressure in the form of forced milk drinking is still clear in my memory. Looking back, I think the milk scare taught me the essence of the origin of laughter, long before I came across any scientific theories of mirth.
When we became third graders, the manner in which the school meal milk was delivered was changed. The milk now came in a "Tetra Pak", with a straw attached. Drinking milk then changed from a savage gulping to a gracious sipping. The days of our milk scare were over, much to our regret and relief, although we would never admit to the relief part before our fellow brats.

Queen of Sweetness

When I was a kid, I used to eat a lot of bad things. Outlets of dagashiya, which literally translates as "junk sweets shop", used to be our favorite hanging out places. Incredible things were consumed by today's health conscious standards. For example, there was a "sweet paper", which tasted sweet when you licked it. In addition, your tongue would turn into red due to the color additives. Modern kids will roll their eyes to hear that. Who would want to taste a just plainly sweet paper? Didn't they have more nice things to eat?
Those were the days when sweets were still considered as luxurious (I was born in 1962), and kids got a kick out of tasting sweet things. It was a time when the Queen of Sweetness reigned in the kingdom of children.
I sometimes wonder if the degree of health-consciousness at one era is not reversely correlated with the overall energy as living organisms of the members of the society. When you are full of energy to live, and are very active doing this and that, you eat and drink what you can get, and do not really care about the supposed qualities of these things. I wonder if there aren't similar phenomena in other countries and cultures.

A double sin

Garigarikun is an ice cream bar brand popular in Japan. A few days ago, after the usual rounds of jogging in the park, I felt like eating one. I usually don't do such a thing, but it was a very warm day. Since I was going to misbehave like a kid anyway, I decided to devour the thing in the bath.
I took a copy of Anne of Windy Willows from the toilet, where I have been keeping the book for some days. I have been reading the childhood favorite little by little in the cozy comfort. Toilets are such private and relaxing spaces, and I really love to read books in them, especially, but not limited to, while I am at home.
I put myself in the bath, turned the pages of Anne of Windy Willows, and nibbled at the ice cream bar. It was a perfect setting for sweet little delinquencies. When I was a child my mother used to tell me that I should not read books in the bath. I was always doing just that, and I somehow managed to avoid learning from her well meaning advice since.
So there I was, with a book and an ice cream bar in my hands, soaked in warm water up to the shoulder. I was happy. It was perfect. All was going well until, as I was finishing the ice cream bar, the last remaining piece dropped to water. For a moment I thought of a rescue, but needless to say it was too late. I witnessed the juicy chunk melt and dissolve into nothingness. A brand new experiment in bath additives.
A few days later, I think that was actually a very delicately delivered punishment for my misbehaviors. You should never read a book in the bath, and eat an ice cream bar. That would be a double sin.

Pain

In an artistic piece of sublime joy, you can sometimes discern a hint of pain. Take J.S. Bach's Air on the G string for example. The music is sweet, and yet in the midst of its rapturous melody you can certainly sense a taint of pain approaching from the midair.
Sanshiro is one of Soseki Natsume's early masterpieces. Sanshiro, a country boy, goes to Tokyo to enter the University. There he meets Mineko, a girl of beautiful enigma. Sanshiro finds that he can decipher the pain in the heart of Mineko's voluptuous existence. The pain in a sense foretells the eventual catastrophe of the love affair, but also is an essential accompaniment to anything of blissful beauty.

Cup noodles in the van seat

Despite the ups and downs, I have kept my habit of going for a run in the park forest near my house. A few months ago, I sprained my right ankle, and could not walk briskly for a while. The ankle has been recovering since, and I have started to exercise in earnest again.
This morning, I was returning from my run. I usually take a banknote with me, tucked away in my pocket, and drop by at a convenience store, to buy some drinks.
As I strolled into the car park beside the convenience store this morning, I noticed a van. In the driver's seat a man sat, sipping from his cup noodle. Evidently, it was his breakfast. Probably he did not have time to take one at home, and just dashed off to work, and had only the time to purchase a cup noodle and ask for hot water from the store clerk.
It is when I take a glimpse of these hard working people that I straighten up in my spirit. The profile of the man remained in my memory for a while. The world as we know it is made of runs in the park and men eating cup noodles in the van seat.
It looks like raining today.

Contingencies of life

The emergence of a new contagious disease makes one ponder on his own mortality.
Humans today tend to think that they are to live "forever", until old age takes its toll in the yet unforeseen future. Life, in reality, could be terminated by an unexpected incident at anytime, by contracting a new type of influenza, for example. We are gracefully oblivious of the brutal contingencies of life, protected by a false belief in the infallibility of the modern civilization.
One can draw the true radiance of vitality from within oneself only by confronting life's contingencies in the face. What the average man needs is a lesson on mortality, rather than on mortgage.
I traveled to Eisenach, Germany in January this year. In a church associated with Johann Sebastian Bach, I noticed on the wall a series of names marked by years and symbols. There were two types of symbols. One was a cross, and the other was a star. I then learned from a local gentleman that the star denotes the birth, and the cross denotes the death, of a person. What a poignant way to express the trace of an individual's life, I thought.
Johann Sebastian Bach composed many wonderful pieces. The cause of his death was the complications after a series of eye operations by an English surgeon. The bright star of music fell. All his wonderful creations could not save him from this untimely death.
Even the stars in the universe have their own life expectancies, the nuclear fuel within their systems drying up after billions of years. It's no wonder that fragile organisms composed of compounds fall. It is only natural that men are mortal.
If our days on this earth are limited, let us at least let them shine. The source of the radiance of our existence can only come from embracing the contingencies of life.


Notice of the birth and death years of church Kantors in Eisenach.

Siegfried in Salzburg

I have been to Salzburg quite a few times, visiting my very good friend Gustav Bernroider at the University of Salzburg. The stroll in the greens as you approach the University Natural Sciences campus from the old town is very comfortable and reveals something to the soul. This time, my journey had a special purpose. I would have the opportunity to experience the Salzburg Easter Festival. Naturally, I was filled with great expectations, as my previous visits never coincided with the periods of festivities.
The festival theater is famously flanked by the rocky cliff. I had my tuxedo, with a handkerchief in the pocket. As I strolled into the hall, I noticed that the audience had a special air around them. The general manager of Salzburg Easter Festival, Herr Michael Dewitte, told me that it is a family-like group, many people coming continuously over the years and consequently getting to knowing each other.
Sir Simon Rattle conducted Siegfried, the second night of the Ring cycle by Richard Wagner. The orchestra was the Berlin Philharmonic. For the record, Siegfried was Lance Ryan. Brunnhilde was Katarina Dalayman. Mime was Hartmut Welker. Erda was Anna Larsson, The Wanderer was Sir Willard White. Alberich was Dale Duesing. Fafner was Stephen Milling. The performance took place on the 13th of April, 2009.
My seat was in the very front row. As a consequence, Sir Simon Rattle's famous hair was just in front of me, with the impression of an angelic lightness. This was my first experience of his live performance, and I could not but follow his movements with great interest. Rattle was conducting with the baton in his right hand. Occasionally, his left hand would also stick out above the screen, to give direction to the singers, cue to the concert master, etc. His movements were lively, as if he was a five year old playing with his favorite toy. And yet there was a unmistakable mastery and elegance in his bodily expressions. The music was sublime.
My fellow travelers were two magazine editors, a writer, an opera critic, a photographer, and a public relations man. The photographer was based in Paris, while the others were from Tokyo like myself. Before the performance, I confided to my companions my personal view of this particular piece of Richard Wagner. It is all about the third act. The dialogue between Siegfried and Brunnhilde at the final scene is the pinnacle of Wagner's music. Its jubilant and luminous procession really belongs to the 23rd century, when the enlightenment of the human spirit would have progressed to such a degree that men are not afraid of life's uncertainties any more but would laugh heartily at their own mortality. The dialogue actually ends with the enigmatic exclamation of "Leuchtene Liebe, Lachender Tod" ("shining love, laughing death"). These words are in deep resonance with the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, although the philosopher parted ways with Wagner later in his life.
Next to me, a lady was seated by herself. She appeared to be from the U.S., judging from her accent and manners. She had two paperback books with her, which she put on the rim of the screen flanking the orchestra pit during the performance. Before the 1st act and during the breaks, she would read the paperbacks. Actually, she kept reading just before Rattle came swinging into the view to a loud applause from the fully packed audience.
Soon after the performance began, I regretted my condemnation of first two acts. It is after all a story of soul searching of a young man. There is a particularly poignant passage where Siegfried confesses to Mime that he has seen his own reflection in the water. He noticed the visual dissimilarities from Mime, who was "supposedly" his father as well as something akin to mother. The self doubt and longing for own identity is a common experience of the young. I remembered my own youth, which was like a period of blue moon in its nature of anxiety and yearning.
Wagner was a man of the theatre, and knew how to affect people's emotions. The entire 1st act and the majority of the 2nd act of Siegfried are dominated by the male voice. The first female voice heard in the opera is that of the bird which tells Siegfried of the existence of Brunnhilde, sleeping in a ring of fire, only to be awakened by a man who did not know fear. Then, in the third act, Erda is awakened by Wotan. Erda is a divine and somewhat abstract figure, so that her voice, although certainly soothing, does not invoke a full impression of the feminine in the mind of the listener.
The stoic use (or non-use) of the female voice prepares the mind of the audience in such a way that finally, when Brunnhilde is awakened by Siegfried's kiss, and sings the breathtakingly beautiful phrase of "Heil Dir, Sonne! Heil Dir, Licht!" (Hello, you, the Sun! Hello, you, the Light!), its effect is literally devastating. Just like the dry sand absorbs water avidly, the audience's ears are thrilled by the touch of the first female voice with a personal touch of warmth.
It was precisely at this moment that I found the American lady secretly wiping her eyes. It was certainly a moving scene. The performance of the Berlin Philharmonic was meticulous and energetic, with a platonic beauty of the harmonious. Sir Simon Rattle's conducting was superb. It was all about music. And the music made the lady from the States cry.
Just before the third act, when Sir Simon Rattle was responding to the spontaneous applause from the auditorium by making the orchestra stand up, I jokingly made a gesture of massaging Rattle's angelic hair. Noticing my stupid action, the lady from America laughed, and said "are you going back to 10 year old?!".
That same lady, who just minutes ago was reading a paper back, and jokingly reproached my childish behavior, was weeping like a little girl, moved by the musical manifestations of emotions that should come with the awakenings to your first love.
That is the power of art.
Well, times should proceed. no matter what. All was over. We strolled out into the cool Salzburger night. The music was still resounding in my ears.
"After attending experiencing such a great performance," I confided to one of my fellow travelers, "the question is not to indulge in a pedantic analysis, but try to live up to the experience." That is the most difficult part. To appreciate the art is meritable. To live the art is rare and divine.


In front of the Festival House in Salzburg, before the Siegfried performance. The man (to the left) in the tuxedo is me.

Philosopher at large.

One of my best friends, Ken Shiotani, went to University of Tokyo for many years. First he finished the master's course at the mathematics department. Then he went on to work at the Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare. Having met his wife and thus getting a means of living, he happily quitted his job, and went back to the campus, this time as a graduate student at the philosophy of science department. He stayed in the department for 9 years, the maximum time allowed by the regulations. After graduating, he has held no position basically, except for a brief period of time when he had a job at University of Chiba. Shiotani has been a "philosopher at large", known for his sharp intellect and powerful speech deliveries, but without any steady or even temporary jobs.
For some years I hoped that he would one day get some position, but having seen how institutions destroy the free spirit by numerous administrative chores, and a false sense of self-importance, I now feel that his position as a freelance philosopher is probably the best one.
I don't know why, but I thought of him first thing this morning, after having had a very strange dream involving a chair and a cliff.


Ken Shiotani, the philosopher at large.


Ken Shiotani's notebook of philosophical ideas.

Seals and the violin.

I have some practical recollections to catch up after this long pause in writing.
It was back then. I was there. I visited Scotland in June in 2008. My fellow traveler was Mr. Seiichi Koshimizu, the venerable chief blender of Suntory. It was a trip focused on whiskey. From Glasgow I flew to the island of Islay. There, after observing the process of whisky producing in the Bowmore and Laphroaig distilleries, one day I was driven to a beautiful small bay.
There I was to meet with Fiona Middleton. Fiona was quite an interesting person. She plays the violin to the seals in the sea. She played on that day, too, while the seals lay relaxed in the ocean water. The music was beautiful. For seals, humans, or otherwise, it was a very enjoyable experience.

Fiona was a person full of exquisite charms. She also had a vivid sense of humour.

"So this is in a sense a music therapy?" I asked.
"No", Fiona said. "I apply conventional medicine if I wanted to cure the seals".

"What do you do?" Fiona asked.
"I am a brain scientist", I answered.
Fiona then said in a half serious, half laughing voice.
"Do you think I am a bit strange?"
"Oh no! Not at all. Why do you ask?"
"Because sometimes people do think I am a bit weird."

The way Fiona said it, in a calm, soothing voice, still lingers in my memory. It was an unforgettable afternoon, with the seals, the violin, Fiona Middleton, Seiichi Koshimizu, and myself, embraced by the sunshine, the wind, and something quite indescribable.


Fiona playing the violin to the seals.


Seiichi Koshimizu (left), Fiona Middleton, and me (right)