Job; no job
There is a store in Tokyo which only sells things that people have accidentally left on the train. I must go.
Now, it seems I don't have a job again. I confessed that I'll only be here six months and bang! the job evaporated. Goddammit. I need money badly. The children travel ticket scam won't work on rent or food, sadly. We've already been donated one bag of food by a kind hearted hostelmate (we must have been looking particularly motheaten and scungy that day). We're pioneering a new diet for the West - the Poverty Diet. Eat less and walk more because of your financial difficulties. I've already lost two kilos, and there's no end in sight.
The evaporation of my dream job means that (sigh) I will be forced to sell my soul to Ponyboy and his kin. He really is the employer of last resort.
-----
The kanji for 'house' is a combination of the kanji for 'roof' and 'woman'. How remarkable.
-----
Kyoto again today, for our dose of Ancient Culture. Two temples and I'm done, thank you. Why do tourists always destroy what they come to see? It's a textbook example of a principle of quantum physics - the observer changing that which is observed. In tourist physics, the forces of greed and tradition clash, producing ancient sites which ferry the maximum number of gawkers through per day. The zen garden at Ryoanji Temple is world famous. I would have almost rather seen it on television, freed from the noise of tourists and bags and cameras and chatter. It was starkly beautiful; 15 rocks, raked white gravel, a mudstone wall. The purposeful arrangement seems random, begs time and thought for understanding. But god, the hordes of cameramen and women. Who takes pictures of a zen garden? (I can freely indulge in sanctimony since we left ours at home accidentally.). What is the purpose of recording everything, aping the storytellers, filmmakers, writers - by freezing a moment at a supposedly special place, putting a frame around it, cutting back the totality of the experience down to one sense - sight - and the memory of the person who went? God, tourists make me angry. Enjoy it and live it in your memory later - if it doesn't live, it wasn't special. Skilled photographers have already taken better photos of these places, so if you want photos, use theirs. Take pictures of people, friends, family, yes, because they are important - amateur photos of shrines never, ever do it justice. Ah, enough ranting. As soon as I get a digital camera, I'll be boring you with what I think are 'special' everyday moments here, too.
OK, so. One interesting thing about the Zen temple was that Zen is meant to emphasise the impermanence of life by juxaposing it with the permanent (I think). But at the same time, the impermanent life - the trees in the temple - were supported everywhere with stakes and poles so that their limbs would not fall off. Perhaps the contradiction is purposeful. Perhaps there is no contradiction. Ah, I don't understand Zen.
Next, Row and I went to Kinkaju-ji, the famed Golden Temple, one of Japan's premier sights. Again, it was overtouristed and as a result, completely underwhelming. Yes, it was pretty; the two top levels covered in real gold leaf, but the effect was kinda tacky - imitation gold leaf on casino's has done a lot of damage. The lake was suitably mystical and filled with koi carp, the pines were adequately gnarled, the moss sufficiently sleek and moist, but the sheer number of humans made the experience nearly worthless. There's a picture of the temple above this computer and frankly, I prefer the professional photograph to seeing it in person. It's cheaper and more beautiful. The professional photographer is the privileged observer; during his or her time there, there are no tourists permitted and there is time to frame the shot, choose the light. The photograph does not emit noise or stench. Still, one positive was that the majority of tourists were Japanese, so it wasn't a Western invasion. I think around a third of Japan's population visits Kyoto, their traditional centre, every year.
Later, we wandered around Kyoto, which was much more interesting than bland tourist fare. Scraps:
Two geisha in a taxi, fully made up: white facepaint, immaculate kimonos, traditional satchels, ordered swirls of hair. One chatted on her mobile phone.
The taxis here have little symbols on their roofs - a heart that lights up if it's vacant, or a crescent moon.
Two Muslim Japanese girls in headscarves.
Many doors here are semi automatic - you touch them and they open. It makes much more sense than fully automated stupid doors that open whenever the leaves blow past the sensor.
A Shinto wedding in a temple; the bride walking slowly across the grounds, elegant. Nearby, stallholders are packing up - the age-old temple hosts a weekly market, the impiousness of commerce sitting comfortably next to comtemplation. There is no contradiction. Jesus would have had a fit (nerdy lapsed Christian joke).
A ukiyoe gallery; exquisite Japanese ink prints, luminous, intense. Row and I sort through them, letting out little ahs! and ohs! as we find new scenes; cherry blossom in spring, labourers in fields, geisha, samurai. The entrance to the gallery has, in English, this inscription: I open this gallery when I wake up and I close it when I want to go to sleep.
A magician has just finished performing as we arrive and is requesting kind donations from watchers. People dutifully deposit yen in his hat. A drunk Malaysian weaves through the crowd, brandishing a banknote; he rubs it against the magician's cheek. The crowd is frozen. The magician tries to extricate himself. The Malaysian loiters, does little tapdances and performances
Near the Shinto wedding, a maiko is walking slowly down the street. She's a trainee geisha, triptrapping on large cork clogs, her face masked in white paint. We tail her at a distance.
A taxi driver whips out a featherduster, of all things, and gently polishes his entire car. He then sheathes the featherduster carefully and spends an inordinate amount of time rubbing at spots with a wet finger.
------
Row's started work already while I'm still scrounging for a job, which is good for him and bad for my self esteem. It sounds excitingly terrifying - he's teaching kids ranging from 1 - 13. How you teach a one year old English is beyond me. Apparently, it consists of songs and paper and teaching the mothers how to teach their children. Leaning English is a national obsession - a new phase of a national preoccupation with Getting Ahead and Staying Competitive in a Global Economy whose language happens to be English, and not Japanese (god, being the number 2 economy must suck). Row says he has brats who ask insouciantly what fuck means, hyperactive kids who blaze around the classroom, timid creatures who won't look him in the eye, and every kind of kid between. Me, I'm looking forward to work, if I ever get any. Ooh, ouch.
There is a store in Tokyo which only sells things that people have accidentally left on the train. I must go.
Now, it seems I don't have a job again. I confessed that I'll only be here six months and bang! the job evaporated. Goddammit. I need money badly. The children travel ticket scam won't work on rent or food, sadly. We've already been donated one bag of food by a kind hearted hostelmate (we must have been looking particularly motheaten and scungy that day). We're pioneering a new diet for the West - the Poverty Diet. Eat less and walk more because of your financial difficulties. I've already lost two kilos, and there's no end in sight.
The evaporation of my dream job means that (sigh) I will be forced to sell my soul to Ponyboy and his kin. He really is the employer of last resort.
-----
The kanji for 'house' is a combination of the kanji for 'roof' and 'woman'. How remarkable.
-----
Kyoto again today, for our dose of Ancient Culture. Two temples and I'm done, thank you. Why do tourists always destroy what they come to see? It's a textbook example of a principle of quantum physics - the observer changing that which is observed. In tourist physics, the forces of greed and tradition clash, producing ancient sites which ferry the maximum number of gawkers through per day. The zen garden at Ryoanji Temple is world famous. I would have almost rather seen it on television, freed from the noise of tourists and bags and cameras and chatter. It was starkly beautiful; 15 rocks, raked white gravel, a mudstone wall. The purposeful arrangement seems random, begs time and thought for understanding. But god, the hordes of cameramen and women. Who takes pictures of a zen garden? (I can freely indulge in sanctimony since we left ours at home accidentally.). What is the purpose of recording everything, aping the storytellers, filmmakers, writers - by freezing a moment at a supposedly special place, putting a frame around it, cutting back the totality of the experience down to one sense - sight - and the memory of the person who went? God, tourists make me angry. Enjoy it and live it in your memory later - if it doesn't live, it wasn't special. Skilled photographers have already taken better photos of these places, so if you want photos, use theirs. Take pictures of people, friends, family, yes, because they are important - amateur photos of shrines never, ever do it justice. Ah, enough ranting. As soon as I get a digital camera, I'll be boring you with what I think are 'special' everyday moments here, too.
OK, so. One interesting thing about the Zen temple was that Zen is meant to emphasise the impermanence of life by juxaposing it with the permanent (I think). But at the same time, the impermanent life - the trees in the temple - were supported everywhere with stakes and poles so that their limbs would not fall off. Perhaps the contradiction is purposeful. Perhaps there is no contradiction. Ah, I don't understand Zen.
Next, Row and I went to Kinkaju-ji, the famed Golden Temple, one of Japan's premier sights. Again, it was overtouristed and as a result, completely underwhelming. Yes, it was pretty; the two top levels covered in real gold leaf, but the effect was kinda tacky - imitation gold leaf on casino's has done a lot of damage. The lake was suitably mystical and filled with koi carp, the pines were adequately gnarled, the moss sufficiently sleek and moist, but the sheer number of humans made the experience nearly worthless. There's a picture of the temple above this computer and frankly, I prefer the professional photograph to seeing it in person. It's cheaper and more beautiful. The professional photographer is the privileged observer; during his or her time there, there are no tourists permitted and there is time to frame the shot, choose the light. The photograph does not emit noise or stench. Still, one positive was that the majority of tourists were Japanese, so it wasn't a Western invasion. I think around a third of Japan's population visits Kyoto, their traditional centre, every year.
Later, we wandered around Kyoto, which was much more interesting than bland tourist fare. Scraps:
Two geisha in a taxi, fully made up: white facepaint, immaculate kimonos, traditional satchels, ordered swirls of hair. One chatted on her mobile phone.
The taxis here have little symbols on their roofs - a heart that lights up if it's vacant, or a crescent moon.
Two Muslim Japanese girls in headscarves.
Many doors here are semi automatic - you touch them and they open. It makes much more sense than fully automated stupid doors that open whenever the leaves blow past the sensor.
A Shinto wedding in a temple; the bride walking slowly across the grounds, elegant. Nearby, stallholders are packing up - the age-old temple hosts a weekly market, the impiousness of commerce sitting comfortably next to comtemplation. There is no contradiction. Jesus would have had a fit (nerdy lapsed Christian joke).
A ukiyoe gallery; exquisite Japanese ink prints, luminous, intense. Row and I sort through them, letting out little ahs! and ohs! as we find new scenes; cherry blossom in spring, labourers in fields, geisha, samurai. The entrance to the gallery has, in English, this inscription: I open this gallery when I wake up and I close it when I want to go to sleep.
A magician has just finished performing as we arrive and is requesting kind donations from watchers. People dutifully deposit yen in his hat. A drunk Malaysian weaves through the crowd, brandishing a banknote; he rubs it against the magician's cheek. The crowd is frozen. The magician tries to extricate himself. The Malaysian loiters, does little tapdances and performances
Near the Shinto wedding, a maiko is walking slowly down the street. She's a trainee geisha, triptrapping on large cork clogs, her face masked in white paint. We tail her at a distance.
A taxi driver whips out a featherduster, of all things, and gently polishes his entire car. He then sheathes the featherduster carefully and spends an inordinate amount of time rubbing at spots with a wet finger.
------
Row's started work already while I'm still scrounging for a job, which is good for him and bad for my self esteem. It sounds excitingly terrifying - he's teaching kids ranging from 1 - 13. How you teach a one year old English is beyond me. Apparently, it consists of songs and paper and teaching the mothers how to teach their children. Leaning English is a national obsession - a new phase of a national preoccupation with Getting Ahead and Staying Competitive in a Global Economy whose language happens to be English, and not Japanese (god, being the number 2 economy must suck). Row says he has brats who ask insouciantly what fuck means, hyperactive kids who blaze around the classroom, timid creatures who won't look him in the eye, and every kind of kid between. Me, I'm looking forward to work, if I ever get any. Ooh, ouch.
posted by Doug @ 3/05/2005 08:27:00 pm
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