Secret base

There are certain things in life that come and go as fads, and yet stand out in one's memory as vivid and significant for years to come.

The secret base play was one of them. When I was about 5, there was a vacant space near my house. Grasses grew there, and logs and metals were stored (or rather abandoned) all over the place.

It was a perfect setting for the "secret base" play.

We brought a few cardboard boxes, and started building the secret base. We imagined that we were preparing to fight an invisible and unidentified enemy. It was fun to prepare the flags and hats of the defense team.

The context was not necessarily one of confrontation, however. There was something fundamentally cozy and intimate about hiding ourselves together in the cardboard box next to each other. The skin touch. The breath. The inexplicable comradeship of us brats.

It may be because these moments of physical and spiritual proximity are rare to come nowadays that I miss the times of secret base so much.



The secret base. Happy childhood times.

Paris

On the way to Paris, I was chatting with a flight attendant gentleman. When he learned that I was going on to Berlin, he remarked "why, are you not going to Paris?"

"Yes, it is a shame, isn't it?" I replied.

I know. Paris is such a romantic city. When you go to Paris, something in you is stirred. There is a new breath in life. And you remember things long forgotten.

On the way back from Berlin, I passed Charles de Gaulle airport again. I saw the "Trains to Paris" sign. Then something in me moved quite strongly.

This time I did not make it. But someday I will.

"Kinder, schafft Neues!"

I went to a wonderful performance of Lohengrin in the Staatsoper here in Berlin. The inszenierung was by Stefan Herheim.
It was a performance difficult to interpret at first. But then things gradually became clear. Lohengrin, the swan knight. The beauty of trusting and then the dark shadows of doubts. Lohengrin does not come from a far-off land of magic and fantasy. He appears and then disappears from the stage ceiling. There is no topological enchantment there. Everything is stripped of the venerable machines of divination, and we are left only with brutal and prosaic facts. Then we have to start from precisely there.

At the end of the third act, the lights on the ceilings came down. And then a huge sign saying "Kinder, schafft Neues!" was hung from above. The message from Richard Wagner himself.

"Kinder, schafft Neues!" "Children, create new things". In order to create, we somehow have to let free from prejudices and
accomplishments. What words of enlightenment and liberation.

When I walked out of the theatre, the night air of Berlin was definitely warmer. And the Kinder were whispering nearby.

"Longtimes"

When I was a kid, I gradually learned that there were all kinds of people in society. Some are bad, but they are so with some reason, and often not without a charm. Everyone is eager to live. That was one of the first lessons in life. And I keep it.

When I was about 10, I was alone at home. The door bell rang. When I opened it, I saw a man dressed in black suit outside.
"Is your mom home?" he said. I said no. "Is your papa home?" he asked. I said no. "Is anybody around?" he continued. I answered again in the negative.

Then his face became suddenly eager, all his attention apparently being concentrated on me.

"You know, son", he started. "I work for a watch company. And the company went bankrupt. I have some very expensive watches with me. They normally retail for tens of thousands yen. But I have to make money somehow. You must have your pocket money, son. Here's a very lucky proposition. For you, it would be just 1000 yen. How about it, son? Would you like to buy it? Your mom and dad will be delighted"

The man showed me a watch. There was a logo on the face. "Longtimes", it said. "This is a very famous brand", the man assured. "You are very lucky to have this watch just for 1000 yen."

At that time, I knew nothing about watch brands. Some years later, I learned that there is a famous brand "Longines". The "Longtimes" watch was clearly a fake. And a very primitive one, too.

Although I did not possess the knowledge, I said "No, thank you." to the man. Kindly, but with a firmness that a 10 year old can command. There was something oily about the man which I mistrusted. Luckily, the man was not insistent. Maybe he thought I did not have the money with me. He shrugged his shoulders and went off. Although the man was apparently a swindler, I did not dislike the person.

To this day, I vividly remember the logo "Longtimes" on the watch. It has been literally "long times" since that childhood day. It is very strange to say so, but sometimes I wish I had bought the watch. Then perhaps I could have commemorated something. The vulnerability of life, the gullibility of the deceiving, and perhaps the pang that must accompany all living on this earth.

Alienation of the familiar

I flew to Paris from Narita. Right now I am in Charles de Gaulle airport, waiting for my plane to Berlin.

On the airplane soon after takeoff, there was an announcement to the effect that Mt. Fuji was visible on the left side. I looked out of the window. The highest mountain in Japan was seen in the far distance, with its peak just above the sea of clouds. What was striking was its metallic appearance. It was as an alien object, not really belonging to this world.

It was not the Mt. Fuji that I used to look at as a kid from the Shinkansen train. It was not the Mt. Fuji in a Hokusai ukiyo-e. The fact that a familiar thing suddenly appeared as something completely unknown left a lasting impression on me, and for the rest of the flight I was thinking of parallels, the alienation of the familiar.

Then I think the universe shivered and coughed, because I began to consider strange ideas like the possibility of a direct conversation with god.

The old teacher gets drunk again

The old teacher gets drunk again

I really love Yasujiro Ozu films.

When things get too busy and business becomes nasty as usual, I turn to the Ozu treasure trove. There, I find life as a tranquil harmony, where everything is human size. By getting immersed in the motion picture flow, I literally seek the salvation of the soul.

The other day I was watching "An Autumn Afternoon"again, the last film by the great director. To be precise, I did not have time to watch it. I just let the film go while being busy at work, capturing in the subconscious background the flow of lively conversations that is so typical of Ozu's masterpieces.

In it, the old teacher gets drunk again, after complaining how he is lonely in the final years of his life. The two former pupils, who have become company executives, look after the old teacher. The teacher sleeps on the floor, and then suddenly gets up. Forgetting all that has been said already, he looks at one of his former pupils in the eye, and, as if he realized what kind of situation he is in for the first time, says, "you are mister Hirayama, aren't you?" ("Hirayama san ka?"), and sleeps on the floor again.

It is at such a moment of human stupidity and fragility that makes one convinced of the love with which Ozu depicted our earthly lives. It is so poignant that one wants to cry and laugh at the same time.



The old boys drinking and discussing the plights of the old teacher. From "An Autumn Afternoon" by Yazujiro Ozu

Well before my first love

As a child, I collected and studied the butterflies quite seriously. As a result, I learned to recognize and identify most of the species to be observed in and near Tokyo. Sometimes, it is difficult to tell which species while the insect is in flight. But quite often, it is easy to tell the name of the butterfly while it is airborne.

It is the natural instinct of a boy to look for rare species. When you see an unusual butterfly, your heart started to throb.

Sometimes quite violently, too. You wanted to capture the butterfly with the net, but you might also fail. If the butterfly escapes your net, it could well be that you would never see it again.

The moment you see a desirable one, the drama starts. You are in a suspension whether your wishes are going to be fulfilled.

Thus, I learned the sweet anxiety of waiting for the verdict well before my first love.

Admiration of the moon.

I once visited the House of Light by James Turrell in Niigata. It was autumn, and the house was surrounded by susuki (Japanese pampas grass).

Although a work of art, you can stay in the House of Light overnight.

The night fell, and some delicious dishes were brought by the house staff. While my fellow travelers stayed inside chatting over glasses of sake, I wondered out to the large engawa and lay there.
It was full moon. The moonbeam was shining on everything, on the susuki, on me, on the trees. There was a gentle wind. The insects of the autumn were chirping sweet and consoling music.

I suddenly realized that it was a perfect setting for Tsukimi. The admiration of the moon, especially at autumn times, is deeply rooted in Japanese culture. I have been accustomed to such festivities since childhood, but I have never realized that there could be such a harmony of surrounding elements for the observation of the moon.

I also realized, with a pang of realization, that with the modernizations of Japan a perfect setting for moon admiration has become hard to come by. It was almost like a remorse. In Tokyo, and in many urbanized areas, it is no more possible to find a suitable environment for conducting one of the venerable expressions of Japanese aesthetics in appreciation of the lunar blessing.

As I pass through life, the moon seems to be represent things that have been lost, like a symbol of sweet regret.

Oranges

Used to be that when I was a kid, I ate a lot of oranges (mikan).

The Japanese oranges are small in size, and the skins are soft and easily peelable. Used to be that mother would buy lots of them in a box. I would eat 5 or 6 in a row, while being seated in a kotatsu.. The oranges were mainly winter things. I associate the white tranquility of winter times with the sweet sour taste of the oranges.

When I went to Vancouver, Canada at the age of 15, I learned that the Japanese oranges were sold as "TV oranges", as people could eat the oranges while watching the TV. I don't know how widespread this particular expression is. At least Verna told me these were TV oranges.

Learning that my familiar oranges were turned into "TV oranges" conjured a strange feeling for me. It was as if my childhood favorites were being transfigured so that the identity was not recognizable any more.

At that time, I was at a stage of great change myself. Growing up is sometimes like being transformed from a mikan into a TV orange.

Mother

For mammals like us, mothers play an essential role in life. Before the arrival of civilization, infants could not survive without the milk mothers provide. With the advent of artificial nourishments for the babies, mothers are still indispensable for our existence, especially in the early periods of life.

Thus, it is not surprising that we have developed a wide usage of the metaphor "mother".

For example, the expression "mother nature" has a deep resonance for a human being. Nature provides us with food, gives us protection, and supports our day to day life materially.

The mother nature metaphor is so natural to us that it is deeply unnerving and then ultimately revealing to realize that the universal concept has originated from the very particular condition in which our specific life style is to be kick-started and nurtured. It is an instance of a particular transforming itself to a universal.

Nobody home

It is sometimes said that Japanese culture is focused on the concept of emptiness. For example, some statues of worship in the Buddhist tradition in Japan is kept as "Hibutsu" or "Secret Buddha" (The Qualia Journal, 3rd July 2009).

A relative secret Buddha can be shown to public from time to time, whereas an absolute secret Buddha should never be shown.

A famous example of secret Buddha in the absolute sense is the "Gohonzon" (main statue of worship) of Zenkoji temple in Nagano. Nobody has seen or dared to see the figure in the recorded history, including the Buddhist priests that jealously guard the reclusive object of worship, which is rumored to be tightly wrapped up with white cloth.

The idea of secret Buddha is said to have been inspired by the Shinto tradition, where it is the norm that the object of worship is not explicitly shown. Sometimes natural landscapes such as a mountain is designated as the object of worship. Thus, the concept of emptiness is deeply rooted in the Japanese tradition.

On the way to a conference in Kagoshima yesterday, I was thinking again about emptiness. Everybody knows that the brain is the seat for mental phenomena. However, if you look into the inside of human brain, you find nothing but an endless network of neurons connected to each other through the synapses, with the glial cells filling the gap. The brain is thus "empty", as far as mental activities are concerned. No light illuminates the enchanted loom, and there is nobody home.

That the essence of mentality is actually emptiness is frightening on the surface but an ultimately reassuring thought. If the truth is to be found in emptiness, then we can access to an infinite source of freedom.

Nobody is home.

But then that is where our spiritual home is.

Definitely.

What is going on, in general?

In my all time favorite British sitcom Father Ted, there is a scene where Father Dougal MacGuire (the gullible one) asks a priest beside him about the situation they're in.

Dougal: What's going on?

Priest: I think Ted has a plan.

Dougal: No. I mean in general.


(From "A Christmassy Ted", broadcast in 1996 as the Christmas Special, currently viewable at youtube, the lingerie section scene being available in part 2 of 6. The remarks by Dougal above can be heard at about 3:50).

In this scene, the priests have mistakenly found themselves in "Ireland largest lingerie section" of a department store. In order to avoid a church scandal, Father Ted tries to lead the priests out of the lingerie section safely, without the customers noticing the presence of the priests. That is when Dougal makes this immortal remark.

"What is going on, in general?"

If the job of the brain is to function within a context, then Dougal's brain is sometimes out of context. There is yet genius in his gullible mind.

"What is going on, in general?"

It is nice to ask this stupid question. Understanding the context might lead to effective intellects, but asking what on earth is going on in the first place is sometimes heavenly and uplifting.



The Immortal Four. The cover of a Father Ted DVD.

Book signings

I sometimes do book signings. My record was when I signed about 300 books in Kochi. That was strenuous.

When I sign my book, I always add a small illustration. It all started with a tree and a bird perched on it. The tree symbolizes my name ("Mogi"). The bird presents some lovely things that visit my way in life.

Over the years, the illustrations have changed. My recent favorite is "an erupting volcano", under which I write the words "explode!". Needless to say, I write my name, too.

From time to time, I try to draw a different illustration for every book brought before me. That is when my brain is put to the most difficult labor. I can feel the circuits within me pressed hard against the wall.

Book signings are like ascetic trainings.

Childhood follies

When I was a kid, I used to love reading "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. This short story depicts the passage of a particular day for a prisoner, Ivan Denisovich Shukhov in the Soviet labor camp in the Stalinist era. I liked the story so much that I read it again and again and yet again. Needless to say, I read the Japanese translation (by Hiroshi Kimura) at that time.

Towards the end of this novel, the protagonist is lucky enough to get hold of a piece of sausage from his fellow prisoner, Tsezar Markovich. Tsezar is rich, and from time to time receives a box of goodies sent from his family. Ivan Denisovich is poor, but he has his wits and enterprising spirits which occasionally earn him the bonuses.

Now, at the end of yet another long and laborious day, Ivan Denisovich is able to taste the delicious food that has become his.

"He himself took the lump of sausage — and popped it into his mouth. Get the teeth to it. Chew, chew, chew! Lovely meaty smell! Meat juice, the real thing. Down it went, into his belly."

(from the translation by H.T. Willets)

I was fascinated by this description of the joy to be discovered in the simple act of eating a piece sausage. Then I had to put imagination into practice.

In those days, they sold a small piece of "salami" sausage in the stores. When I got the feeling, I would buy a piece of salami,
and gingerly come back home. Imagining that I was Ivan Denisovich himself on the prisoner's bed, I would chew the sausage slowly, and then finally swallow it.

"Meat juice, the real thing".

I remember I repeated this ceremony many, many times.

Those childhood follies taught me, in essence, that there is glory and joy even in the darkest moments of deprivation.

I shall doubt myself today

I saw a bunch of people shouting slogans on the street. It is a free country, and people can say anything they like, but when people exhibit the signs of mental closure, it saddens and frightens me tremendously.

Nothing is to be avoided in this life than an absolute conviction that one is right. A grain of salt, a dash of self-doubt is all you need to breathe the air of life.

So I shall doubt myself today. And the wind begins to blow.

From twitter:

kenmogi
Hello world! I was born today. I greet you for the first time. How marvelous the things. Freedom is a greeting of the first encounter.

Contagious

On a cold day recently, I was walking past the streets of Yamagata, looking for a place to console my soul and fill my stomach. I had finished a full day of intensive work.

Yamagata is two and half hours train ride from Tokyo on the Shinkansen train. It is not a place which people would normally expect to be rich in the genesis of culture, high or pop. But I simply knew otherwise.

The internet has been here for 10 years, more or less. Yet people still have this funny idea that there are centers and peripheries. I have always revolted against the conventional thinking since my childhood, and I cannot really stand the misconception that you have to be in Tokyo, London, Paris, New York, and other "cultural centers" in order to lead an intellectually stimulating life. With the advent of the web, the tap for deep information is everywhere. The limits are inner, not outer.

The key is contagion. Once you get infected by a virus of passion, you can bring the vibe anywhere. The crucial point is in that first exposure.

As far as I have a very clear idea of what the manifestations of a true intellect and devoted artists are, I can go anywhere. I would be happy to live in a quiet corner, and have a feverish life culturally. The volcano that is inside me will be connected to the world through the broadband of senses. I and my close friends would be the center of the world.

I would like to be contagious, and get infected. Even if we are vehicles for memes, there is an infinitely rich life in it.

A massacre of possibilities

Today, the qualia journal celebrates 150 days of continuous entries, the streak starting on the 6th of June 2009.

Hooray!

I do not know why I have not done such a thing earlier. But then life is always like that, doing essential things too late too little.
Going through the every day is like trying to manage while being pressed against the wall. I am sure that by attending to a particular thing you lose track of others. Life is a infinite series of choices, forced, and sometimes out of rhythm, and yet you've got to keep your stiff upper lip.

Ken Shiotani, my best philosopher friend, once said that to live is like to experience a massacre of possibilities. You follow a particular trail, and at that moment precisely, an infinite number of alternatives perish.

I remember quite vividly the evening on which I and Ken Shiotani the fat philosopher talked about the inevitable mass death. I think we were talking about his former girl friend. We were on the river bank.

Imagining liberates

Recently, I received a very nice mail from a gentleman in Thailand. In it, he said some kind words about one of my books which has been translated to Thai. In the answer, I told him that to my regret, I have never visited the beautiful country so far, but hope to do so in the near future.

I know King Bhumibol Adulyadej Thailand, who has reigned since 1946, is ill. I can only imagine how the king's illness is affecting the Thai people. My compassion and best wishes for the Thai people.

As Ludwig Wittgenstein remarked, there's probably no private language. Intersubjectivity is the hallmark of any speech. On the other hand, each language defines a universe of its own. The English enshrines one, the Japanese creates another, and the Thai gives life to yet another cosmos in which there are numerous entities around.

To be born and grow up in one linguistic universe results in a unique world. Your neighbour is invisible, unless you make a conscious effort to immigrate. This blog itself is an experiment in that direction by somebody who started to learn English at the age of 12.

The mail from the Thai gentleman gave me thoughts. I imagined having been born and grown up in the country of smiles. I imagined being worried about and wishing the best for King Bhumibol Adulyadej.

Imagining liberates, by putting more life to circulate in one's system.

Masahiko and Katherine

I was having a conversation with my best friend Masahiko Shimada at a public lecture in Tokyo. Masahiko is a famous writer. Masahiko opened the dialogue with a criticism of the global capitalism. Then our topic shifted to how we all invariably fail.

Failure comes from facing the truth. In our mind, across our hearts, there are elements which lead to demise of the protagonist if he or she is true to them. The world is after all an imperfect place. Following the inner voice inevitably leads to disaster. Heroes and villains fail alike.

The good thing is that there will be always reincarnations, in this life.

In this life.

On the way to the public lecture I suddenly remembered how I used to love the short stories by Katherine Mansfield. The qualia in "The Garden Party" resonated as I headed for the imagined kingdom of freedom and demise.

Original sin

On the airplane, I was thinking again about Glenn Gould.

In an earlier post ("Private language of music", 14th October 2009), I wrote:

I have a hunch why Gould refrained from playing in the public later in his career. The presence of attentive minds is a great stimulator. On the other hand, it sometimes stimulates one in a vulgar way. One would like to entertain, and therefore goes out of the way. A great art lies there, so it is not necessarily a bad thing. However, it is at the same time a distraction from purity, which Gould probably hated.
For a performer like Vladimir Horowitz, the audience is a godsend. Gould, on the other hand, thrived in the absolute privacy.

The crucial thing is that the very nature of music is transformed in the presence of others. We are social beings, and confronting others come so naturally to us. However, it also affects our existence. Maybe it is the original sin.

In a sense, Glenn Gould was trying the impossible. How to make music without the presence of an audience. It is like forgetting how one looked in the mirror. Knowledge has tainted our consciousness, and we simply cannot go back. The bliss of ignorance is never to return, not even as a momentary lapse, as in the unconscious there would be always knowledge.

Sometimes beauty holds a terrible truth. Gould's music is a Pandora's box.