Laughing Knees

Over the last few days I have received a number of letters from old and dear friends living far away in other countries. It was wonderful to hear from them, but I also felt the ache of their absence.

On the night my family arrived in Tokyo from New York we were driven into the city from Haneda Airport. It had been a long flight, with a transit in Honolulu for refueling, and we were all tired and a bit dazed. A representative from my father’s company met us at the arrivals area and escorted us out to the street, where he had his car waiting for us. The air was heavy with humidity and insects whirled around the street lights over the taxi stand. The air smelled of burning oil and something else, something sweetly organic that a newcomer like me couldn’t identify. And all the while a numb sense of dislocation surged up in my belly, like having my sense of balance ripped out from inside me, a sense of being physically there, but my soul lingering in another time far away. When I think back on that moment, it is curious that I can remember the details of arriving in Tokyo, but can’t recall a single image of the moment we left New York…

During my Saturday evening walk along the Noh River near my house, the clouds teased the air with tastes of drizzle, more threatening with the rumbles of thunder, than with dumping the buckets overboard.

Shrine blessing fountain, Izu, Japan, 1994.
After reading two posts ( “Wyrrd”, by Lisa Thompson of field notes: and “Elderhood”, by Robert Brady, of Pure Land Mountain ) that addressed thoughts about getting older, plus having an involved discussion with three of my early-twenties students, I got to doing a lot of thinking over [...]

It’s supposed to be hot and sultry these days, but the it seems as if the sky has taken to wearing too much sunscreen lately. It’s making for sluggish insectine culture.