Hiding (III).

To this day, I do not understand what was behind my impulse to hide from the middle-aged man. It was not that he looked dangerous or anything. When you think about it really hard, he looked somewhat similar to a young teacher who scolded us in the classroom when we were third graders. But that was just a superficial likeness. For all I could tell, his intentions were good. Kindness radiated from his countenance. And yet, somehow I wanted to hide from the man.

Perhaps I felt that peace and tranquility had been disturbed through the conversations with him. Although the chat was lively and enjoyable, probably I would have preferred being alone in the forest, listening to the sound of silence. Possibly I was secretly indignant that it was too late to regain that desired tranquility. The day was already almost spent. And I had to start heading for the station very soon. Probably I was angry with the man. Or perhaps I was just being a little bit shy.

"Ooi! Where on earth are you?!" "Ooi, are you all right?" The middle-aged man kept shouting, and his voice became louder gradually. He started to sound quite concerned. Probably, he thought that I was lost or something. He might have been thinking that I was hurt and unable to move. It might have well been that he feared I was unconscious.

When I put myself in the position of the middle-aged man now, I can well understand his concerns. Here was a 12 years old boy alone in the mountains, chasing butterfly. The boy had been chatting in a very friendly manner all the while, and all of sudden the boy was no more. No matter how often and loud you called, the boy did not answer. Maybe there had been an accident. Maybe there had been something serious. With the benefit of hindsight, it was no wonder that the middle-aged man was concerned.

I could see such a line of logic on that day, even. I felt that I had a moral obligation to yell back. However, something inhibited me from doing so. There was this strange and uncontrollable agitation in my heart. As time passed, and as the middle-aged man's calls became louder and more desperate, I increasingly felt that it was now probably too late to answer back. In the beginning, it was just a tiny twist in my whimsical mind. I just failed to answer the first few yells. And yet, now that I had remained silent for such a long time, the middle-aged man should be suspecting that there was some intention on my part, something hideous, something even vicious. And I could not bear such thoughts any more.

(This story is to be continued tomorrow)

Hiding (II).

The middle-aged man I met along the mountain brook said that we walk together. I said fine. So both of us set out to look for Panchala ganesa loomisi.

Within my bosom, my secret wish was to just glance at this lovely butterfly in flight. The ephemeral bluish color on the wing should present a fascinating flickering light when the butterfly is airborne, I imagined. It was almost like an anguished longing.

However, no matter how hard we looked, Panchala ganesa loomisi did not come into view. There were some other butterfly species which looked similar to Panchala ganesa loomisi. Narathura japonica, for example. Every time a likely candidate came into the view, I jumped and run. Every time it turned out to be yet another false alarm.

Time passed, and the sunlight started to weaken. Evidently, I had to start heading home in a few minutes. At that time, I was wandering in the forest on my own. I had been walking with the middle-aged man, but had parted at some time earlier. This was not an unusual action for a butterfly chaser. After all, nature is vast, and it is always a good idea to cover different habitats, in an effort to conduct a joint "filtering" operation.

Suddenly, I heard the man yell out for me. "Ooi", I could hear his voice. "Ooi, where are you?" I could tell that he was quite near. Maybe he wanted to make sure that I was O.K. Maybe he was thinking that he would kindly take me to the station. After all, I was only 12 years old. However, due to the thick foliage, I could not see him. And vice versa.

Out of the blue, I wanted to hide. I felt that I did not want to join that man anymore. I did not know what happened to me. I just wanted to hide, in the tranquility of the forest.

(This story is to be continued tomorrow)

Hiding (I)

When I was 12 years old, I wanted so much to capture a particular butterfly species, Panchala ganesa loomisi,. It was a small and lovely butterfly. The habitat of this rare species was very limited. Around Tokyo, there was one mountain range where the butterfly inhabited. One Sunday I could not stand it anymore. I jumped onto a train and ventured off to that area of promise.

It was not long after arriving that I realized that the search was going to be difficult. The forestation was quite dense, and the biomass was large. That should have been a good sign in the general sense. However, it also meant that the butterflies would be dispersed and hard to find, even if there were any.

I knew from prior knowledge from books and magazines that I would have to go down to the mountain brooks to have a good chance of encountering the butterfly. When I was walking along a flow, I met with a middle aged man. The man held a butterfly net in his hand, just like me. He asked me "did you come for the Panchala ganesa loomisi?" I answered "yes". We started to chat. The man said that it was great of me to come all the way to this mountain alone, considering my age. I felt proud and happy to hear that. Evidently, he was a very nice man.

(This story is to be continued tomorrow)


Panchala ganesa loomisi

Ebizo keeps a dragon.

Ichikawa Ebizo XI is a good friend of mine and a great Kabuki actor. He has a big secret. Ebizo keeps a dragon, and the dragon keeps growing.

The revelation came as I was having a conversation with Ebizo for a magazine article in a Tokyo hotel. Out of the blue, Ebizo mentioned in a casual and as-a-matter-of-fact manner that he was keeping a dragon with him.

The story went like this. Some time ago, Ebizo was attending a party. There was an elder man that Ebizo quite respected. When Ebizo looked at the man, there was a large dragon behind. Naturally, Ebizo was quite astonished. The man, looking at Ebizo's countenance, said dryly "Oh, do you see the dragon? It is standing just behind me, isn't it? Where you are looking at now, is the dragon's face. Do you see that? I'll tell you what. Bring a glass jar to this temple in the mountain. Normally, the master priest does not give away dragons to a first comer. But you may be different. He might give you a dragon."

So Ebizo went to this temple in the mountain. The head priest, after looking at Ebizo carefully, finally said that he might take back a dragon in the jar.

So Ebizo took a dragon in a jar back to Tokyo. As time passed, it grew bigger, and it came out of the jar. By the time I met with Ebizo, the dragon had become larger than himself.

As I listened to this story with amazement, Ebizo said to me, "just about where you are looking at right now, should be the dragon's head. Do you see that?"

I could not actually see anything, but I made a ambiguous response, partly to be diplomatic, but partly out of sincerity, as the dragon story made me think deeply.

From the scientific point of view, the whole story should be judged to be a fruit of illusion. A dragon is an imaginary animal. It does not "exist" as a physical entity.

But then there is a rich cultural history, in the far East, regarding the dragon. The dragon is a symbol of inspiration, aspiration, ambition, strength and energy. But tapping into the energy to be extracted from living with the imaginary animal, Ebizo is clearly becoming a larger figure as a Kabuki actor.

Another important point is that Ebizo is doing his day job well. Quite superbly, as a matter of fact. Once on stage, Ebizo's acting as a Kabuki actor is quite intensive, burning with energy, and has the elegance of a wild beast. Nobody questions that.
Some people, when possessed with a vivid imagination, stops functioning in their day jobs. They talk fanciful things, but does nothing. In such a case, the illusion loses its life, and begin to deteriorate.

Ebizo is different. Ebizo does not rely on his dragon. He uses his own body, practices, rehearses, thinks hard, and brings forth a wonderful Kabuki stage, moving the spectators. The dragon is then probably just a symbol of the excellence of Ebizo.
Ebizo keeps a dragon. And then he is a man with a practical sense. Ebizo is embodied. The combination of embodied practicality and the vivid imagination of a dragon is the chemistry behind the phenomenal great acting.



Ichikawa Ebizo.

I would not have been born.

My mother is originally from the southern island of Kyushu. She was born in 1936.

On August 9th, 1945, at the age of 8, she was in the city of Kokura. On that fateful day, a B-29 carrying the "Fat Man" atomic bomb flew to Kokura. As there were too many clouds over Kokura, they turned the bomber to Nagasaki instead, which was designated as the second target. At 11:02 a.m., the bomb was dropped to the city of Nagasaki, killings tens of thousands of people. Many of the victims were innocent civilians, including many children, just like my mother.

If the clouds were less dense on that day over Kokura, my mother would have been victim to the cruel bomb. She would have not grown up to meet my father and marry. I would not have been born.

First love

I think my first love "happened" to me when I went to my mother's hometown in Kyushu at the age of 5.

One of my mother's sisters was married to a farmer with a whole mountain behind the house. They held a bon-odori (summer dancing) event in the spacious garden.

There was a girl in yukata dress. She was my first love. There was something definitely elegant and beautiful about her whole demeanor. I did not know what her name was, nor where she came from. Her impression remains vivid to this day.

The darkness itself.

(Continued from yesterday's entry "The firefly night")

My sister and I wandered around in the night, sometimes hand in hand. My mother dragged behind,　somewhat breathlessly, as I and my sister were walking fast.

It was quite a while before we could get any signs of fireflies. Suddenly, there was a cry. "Look, there goes the firefly!" We dashed on, but could not really observe the light hindered by the walls of people's backs.

Then a little boy came along, with an insect cage hanging from his hand. Lights could be seen going on and off in it. There were fireflies! "Where did you capture these things?" My mother ventured to ask. "Just there, over in the forest!" The boy's caretaker answered.

"Into the forest!" I cried, and I went off in that direction, with the equally excited sister. We looked around and around, but there were no signs of fireflies. Perhaps the had all gone to bed by now.

But then, as if in a miracle, there, in the grass near a big tree, was a flickering and vibrant light. We found the firefly! We made the encounter at last!

Strangely, by this time, the zeal to capture the insect and take it home was gone. I and sister lingered on to watch the fireflies without bothering to capture them. The night breeze was cool and pleasant. And then, gradually, we made friends with the darkness itself. The fireflies did not matter any more.

In a tranquil mood, we went home and slept.

The firefly night.

When I was about 10 years old, there was an announcement in the local newspaper that a "firefly night" would be held in a nearby park. Thousands of fireflies would be released in the park for the public to enjoy, the article claimed.

The park, spacious but devoid of any clean running water, was not naturally a habitat of the light-emitting insects. The event was clearly meant to be one-off, with the fireflies brought in from somewhere else, either captivated in the wild or artificially nurtured.

In the contemporary atmosphere ever-conscious of animal welfare and environmental concerns, such an event would raise the eyebrows of many. At that time, however, thirty-something years ago, nobody seemed to have any objections. The fireflies might eventually perish in a foreign environment, but the joy that these insects give, no matter how temporary, was thought to justify the whole fuss (and mess for the insects).

I got all excited to read the article, and asked my mother to take me to the park. We had to ride the train to reach there. I took my small sister, equipped with insect net and cage. When we arrived at the station, there were already lots of kids with eager eyes. They had only one thing in mind. To see a firefly, and, if possible, to capture it to take home.

From the newspaper article, I had a vivid imagination of light points moving here and there in the dark, overwhelming the vision. The reality turned out to be more mundane. Perhaps the numbers were correct. However, averaged over the spaciousness of the designated park, the number of fireflies per unit area turned out to be disappointingly low.

"There are no fireflies," exclaimed my sister. "I would like to go home," she begun to wail. Perhaps the darkness frightened her. I did not want to go home in a hurry, so I kept saying "the fireflies would be in that direction", and continued to move around in the dark forest.

(This story is to be continued)

The beauty of butterfly watching

When I go for jogging in the park forest nearby, I am always watching out for butterflies. They are lovely creatures. I used to try to catch them when I was a child, but nowadays I just observe their behavior.

The most interesting feature of behavior to watch is the route that they take. The butterfly flight paths should be in principle chosen carefully for the survival value (i.e., in search of nectar, possible mates, and avoiding predators), and yet are full of rapid turns and apparently whimsical perturbations at the same time.

The beauty of butterfly watching is that you never know when and from where they are coming. Every corner of your vision becomes a potential route of entry for the airborne creature. By waiting for the butterflies, your sensitivities are kept alive and vibrant.

Yesterday, I was lucky to observe a beautiful specimen of Great Mormon (Papilio memnon Linnaeus). This magnificent butterfly used to be more southern bound. Probably due to the effects of global warming, we can now observe Great Mormons in Tokyo, too.

Thus, while jogging among the greens, I can sometimes encounter a messenger from the south.


A Great Mormon.

Every child is born into a system of language.

Every child is born into a system of language. I was born into the universe of Japanese, spoken by 130 million people but virtually confined to the island nation.

English came as a second language. Nowadays I use it constantly in my professional and private lives. As a non-native speaker I still have difficulties handling things.

Fortunately the situations are improving. I feel more and more confident and find tremendous joys in going over national borders and getting connected with people on the globe via the lingua franca. Having said that, the fact that English came to me as a second language has been a source of tremendous hardships in my life.

If only English was my native language. Such wishful thinking sometimes do come to me. On the other hand, there must be some advantages of being born into a minority language. I am yet to find the specific blessing. Maybe the point is too subtle to be made in a short period.

At the least, because of the difficulties experienced, I am set out to do a particular kind of soul searching. Hopefully I stumble upon some valuable truth one day because of this wandering around.

Being in a hot air.

So I am back in Tokyo, back into the heat and humidity. When at home, I do not use the air conditioner, as I don't like the artificial atmosphere. The occasional breeze from the window is just fine for me.

Consequently, when I go out, I enjoy the cool air on the train, in the buildings. A tremendous motivation for me to go out!
The reason why I am resistant to heat can probably be sought back to the days when I was chasing butterflies in the field as a child. Butterflies love fine weather, and they roam around when it is hot. I associate good old memories with the state of being in a hot air.

Having said that, today's heat in Tokyo is probably a little bit too much even for me. Good thing that I will be going out soon.

East of Eden.

On the plane back to Tokyo (JL001), I watched the film "East of Eden". I think I had seen this masterpiece directed by Elia Kazan a few times, in the days of my naive and callow twenties. The memory of the famous theme music, which is very easy to capture and remember, did not need any refreshing. On the other hand, I realized that I had forgotten most of the details of the film synopsis. The lettuce and beans, for example.

As I watched on, I was emotionally gripped. The story of rivalry between the twin brothers Cal (played superbly by James Dean) and Aron invoked a strange wave of resonance in my heart. The undertone of a possible romantic triangular relations between the twin brothers and Abra (played impressively by Julie Harris) added an atmosphere of tension.

The final scene of reconciliation between the father and son was moving because of the subtle chemistry portrayed. The presence of the ever annoying nurse added a strangely effective spice to the whole thing, which might have been otherwise too sweet. The chasm of misunderstandings and miscommunications finally melted like a snowflake touched by the warmth of the human skin.
Before I knew it, tears welled in my eyes. In order to hide my face from the flight attendants, I raised my right arm to the level of my ear, pretending I was stretching my body after a long flight.


East of Eden.

2nd day at the Science Foo camp.

2nd day at the Science Foo camp on the Googleplex. Discussions begin in earnest. The sessions are self-organized, scribed down on large post-its on a large schedule board. I chose to attend the Evolution of beauty, Lightening talks (II), Minds, brains and children, Embracing uncertainty, Aliens and search for life 2.0., Death of old media & the birth of new democracy, and Future of authors sessions.

I met quite a few interesting people. E.g., Jaron Lanier and John Brockman.

I just love the atmosphere of free concepts exchange and jazzy dance together of minds. During the sessions, I always made a point of speaking out. But since the exchange of vocalized opinions are so continuous and never-breaking, my own music of thought needed to be precisely timed and had to be explosive when successfully inserted.
I thank the organizers and participants for the awesomeness of the whole thing.

Scince Foo Camp opening.

First day of Science Foo camp 2010 at Google campus.

It was my first visit to the Googleplex. Impressive. The atmosphere of playfulness and serious concentration was resonating and just fine for me.

We registered at building 40. Lots of interesting people around me. We got out badges, souvenior paper weight with 3D laser sculpture. (Mine was the fractal Julia set. Others were DNA structure and geomagnetic field. Cool.)

With a glass of wine in hand, I took a brief stroll in the campus. Four men were playing beach volleyball. There was a whole T. Rex skeleton, with birds sticking out of here and there. There were posters recruiting people for film gatherings and table tennis tournament. The dress code seemed to be "google casual."

In the opening session, we introduced ourselves each briefly with three key words. Daniel Kahneman was there. Larry Page said hello to the participants. The organizers from Google, Nature, and O'Reilly made interesting opening remarks. How stimulating the whole thing is!

This taxi driver has developed a cognitive filtering machine.

So here I am in Sunnyvale, California. It is 2:42 p.m. local time. In the evening, I will be attending the Science Foo Camp sponsored by Google and Nature. After I am done with this blogging, I will most probably take a nap, as I could not get adequate sleep on the plane.

I originally thought of hiring a car, but then judged it was probably too much trouble. Therefore I took a cab instead. I always enjoy conversation with the driver.

We were discussing the high tech devises on the car. The driver pointed to a camera and said it captured 8 hours of video, looping. "Do you get any strange customers?" I asked. "Yes", the driver said. "Especially at night. You know when people are loaded, when they are drunk, they sometimes behave strangely. But you can tell pretty well whether a guy is going to behave strangely when he is standing on the road." "Really?" "Oh, yeah. When a guy is waving his hand like that, or is standing in the middle of road, you can pretty well tell that he is going to make trouble. I just pass by them."

So it appears that this taxi driver has developed a cognitive filtering machine, telling potentially troublesome customers beforehand. A good adaptation. I am curious about the specific details for classification, though.

Being in a minority position is not without its joys.

Throughout my life, I seem to have been enjoying the status of being a minority.

In the junior high, I used to chase butterflies in the field, and read grown-up's books. That was an attitude not ubiquitous among us brats, so I was always looked at as if observing something strange.

As I grew up, my tastes seemed to be shift into increasingly exotic areas in terms of sensitivity and feelings. I had to hide my true nature from time to time, but then I started to encounter people of my own kind.

I remember quite well the rubbishings and abuses we Mac users used to receive from the majority of people who uses the import from Seattle. They said that Macs are for fun and not for serious business. Corporations and schools matter-of-factly announced that their systems and apps were not compatible with the Mac. What do you care? Many computer viruses also turned out to be Mac-incompatible.

When waiting for the train in a Tokyo subway station, I tend to stand in the corners or at the farthest ends of the platform, away from where most people stay for convenience. For me, being alone seems to be more important than seeking convenience.

And the last straw is the problem of qualia. Many "serious" scientists laugh at it as if it is a pseudo-problem. They tend to maintain that functionalist approaches based on connectionist models are sufficient. Again, what do you care. One cannot change what one believes based on empirical observation and application of pure logic.

Being in a minority position is not without its joy. When you are in the majority, it is not that difficult to find people with whom you can resonate. Being in the minority, friend-making becomes an art in miraculous encounters. For example, if and when you find people who are seriously interested in the problem of qualia, that can give you a joy that lasts all your life.

May Ebizo and Mao live happily ever after.

I attended the wedding party of Ebizo Ichikawa, the young and great Kabuki actor. The Kabuki is a miracle, as it is both popular and artistically very refined. Very few genres of art achieve these often incompatible goals.

Ebizo is a great person. He has the savageness of a beast, as well as a fine-tuned intelligence of a noble man. The lady he chose as his partner, Ms. Mao Kobayashi, is a well known newscaster and a very beautiful lady.

Once on stage, Ebizo can become very furious. He can portray characters very remote from human dimensions. His energy then truly approaches that of a dragon. However, this evening, Ebizo was just a very happy man, grinning all the time. May Ebizo and Mao live happily ever after.


Ebizo and Mao cutting the cake. From asahi.com.

EST, EST, EST.

My favorite bar in Tokyo is "EST" in Yushima. The first time I visited this legendary bar, I was with Ken Shiotani, my fat philosopher friend. We had just turned 22. Shiotani was actually not that fat at that time. Then his belly area started to grow rapidly, and outpaced the Japanese economy.

I have a vivid image of the first night at EST. We were wandering in the small streets of Yushima, and Shiotani said out of the blue that he had a place that he wanted to try out. At that time, it was mainly Shiotani that came up with the proposals. I was rather a naive boy in the field of culinary and alcoholic delights. Shiotani was quite eager in this respect, which probably accounts for his big gain in weight.

The walk brought us to a thick wooden door. Inside, we found a polished bar table and a man in white cook coat with a gentle smile. That was Mr. Watanabe, master of EST.

Since then, EST has been my haven, EST has been my heaven, EST has been my home. EST, EST, EST. When do I go to EST next time with my fat philosopher friend?


With Ken Shiotani on the "Hanami" (cherry blossom admiring) night this March.

Passion meter.

As I go about my life, I meet many people. Some are famous. Others are young. Many are experienced. A few are truly awesome. I seem to appreciate the individualities of these persons in many different ways. One of the most important, however, is what I would call a "passion meter".

The question is how passionate a person is about his or her life. Passion can be nurtured in adversities, so the superficial success or failure are not that important. Intelligence also does relatively little to do with the passion level.

When professing a cause, the key concern is how deeply the antagonist actually believes in that cause. In many cases, people are just saying niceties, and do not actually put their energy into the realization of the causes. Some people are too established to really care for other people or themselves.

The greatest tragedy in life is the loss of passion. When a nation or a society suffers from it, inevitable decline follows. In many cases, people do not notice the decline, as their eyes are blind to the fact that they can convert difficulties into passion, if and only if they have the courage to do so.

So I go about the world today again with my passion meter. When I encounter an outlier of magnitude in the passion measure, I consider it as one of the rare blessings to my life.

Sapporo

Responding to the invitation of a senior high school headmaster Mr. Kawasaki, I gave two lectures in Sapporo. After the strenuous but enjoying hours, I strolled in the streets towards a local restaurant. It is always refreshing to venture into the unknown. Your instinct to discern the good from the mediocre, the tasty from the not so tasty, is highly invoked and something in you that remained dormant for so many years become active.

It occurs much slower than in a video game. The number of choices are also limited. You cannot fast-forward or keyword search.
But then everything is embodied, here and now.

Finally, we decided on a fisherman's restaurant. The defining moment is the taste of the evening's first beer. As I talked into the late hours with people from around the northern city, the joy of being on the road slowly unfolds itself.

In traveling, you are lost once and then find a transient home. You rest your weight on the newly found ground and then dissolve it without regret. The rather quick procession of things assures that your life is well revived and taken care of. You find that, once again, traveling has refreshed the life in you.