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.

Essay contests

When I was a senior high to university student, I used to enter essay contests and win prizes. When I was 15, I won a trip to Canada. I went to Hawaii for an essay prize at the age of 18.

When I was at the University, Japan was in the middle of the "bubble economy". I did not benefit directly from the frivolous festivities that went on nightly in the clubs and restaurants in Tokyo (at these times my life was really modest, simple, and without excitement, just concentrating on physics). However, I did get some bonuses by winning prize money in essay contests held by corporations and organizations with fat purses. I used the money to go to operas, kabuki plays, and concerts. Thus, I used the essay winnings to cultivate my knowledge and sensitivities. To this day, I think that was a very good investment.

I remember one particular essay contest well. In the essay, I argued that our society needed a project to inspire people for something beyond the realm of the daily experiences. Without such an enterprise, human spirituality would suffocate. After warning against a danger of the closing of the human mind in the modern society, I argued that one of the best projects would be SETI (Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence).

My essay won the first prize. I was twenty-something then. (Needless to say, all these essays were written in Japanese. I am yet to win my first English essay contest.)

At the prize ceremony, one of the judges said very nice things about my prose. He was a famous critic. He said that "Mr. Mogi writes with fire. His style shows much promises". I was pleasantly flattered. His words were music to my ears. But then he went on to say that "the argument was very well, until Mr. Mogi came to the last part, arguing for the necessity for SETI. I wonder if the project provides an appropriate ending to this essay."

Thus, at the very end, I was discouraged. The judges all nodded in agreement with the critic. Apparently, they did not think that SETI was a proper subject to be discussed in respectable social contexts. Not like building an arts theatre or promoting a sports event.

At that very moment, I think, a theme that continues to run in my life even today emerged. I might be able to come to (or appear to come to) an agreement with the society in general on the surface, but when it comes to things that really matter, I am rarely in agreement with the comfortable mainstream.

I partially regret the situation. Had I been more conformant, I would have led an easier life. But then it would not have been as fun.