THE SAGA OF THE RISING SUN

On the toddy trail

2006-11-19T02:14:00.000-08:00

It was too late to bail out now. A crowd of glassy eyed guys in lunghis blocked the exit. More peered through the barred window dividing our room from the corridor. The toddy man poured two enormous glasses of cloudy white liquid. Was that steam I saw rising from each glass, some sort of noxious vapour? Fruit flies flitted around the open bottle.

The toddy man looked solemn. Every lunghi skirt wearing man in the place looked solemn. The only guy smiling was our sixteen year old guide, thrilled to have presented two such specimens at the toddy altar. I didn't need to look at my hubby Ryan to know he was pondering the same concept; were the three of us (me, him, and smiley teen) going to leave this place less a kidney each?

Our suspicions should have been aroused long before we fronted the toddy shack. I guess, truth be told, they were, but we we're curious sods with a penchant for the dodgy and absurd. This interest was only piqued by the wrinkled old codger squatting at the front of the shack, wearing the eponymous lunghi and, rather incongruously in the tropical heat, a woolen ski mask. He giggled and waved a stick at us, before being shooed back inside by one of the toddy tappers. The lone tooth that had proudly gleamed from the yawning chasm of his mouth was now firmly nestled behind the grim line of his pursed lips. Here was a man who clearly took his toddy drinking seriously.

We'd been very active in trying to arrange a tipple of toddy, repeatedly asking the captain of the backwater vessel on which we were currently ensconsed, the chef, the porter, our juvenile guide, and, indirectly, the coconut guru. We were after an authentic liquid accompaniment to the endless green palms and meandering canals of Kerala's backwater district. However, the southern state, India's first democratically elected communist government, tightly controls the sale of liquor. You can purchase grog in three ways: a visit to a govt. liquor store, which involves a visit to a dusty counter covered by a metal screen on the highway outta town, where you whisper your poison and recieve the goods through a small hole along with a disapproving grunt; from certain tourist oriented establishments where ordering a 'special tea' gets you watered down beer in a teapot; or, you visit the toddy shack.

I want to stress that we're not lager swilling goons looking for a cheap accompaniment to boorish acts of gluttony. On the contrary, we're true afficiandos of the grape and the grain. Lush troubadours with a romantic and wildly misguided nostalgia for the more hedonistic practices of the colonialists -- that is to say, we longed for G&T's on the deck of a thatched boat that silently drifted past swaying greenery. We were also keen to immerse ourselves in all forms of local culture, culinary and otherwise.

To this end, we fronted up at the pier in Kollam, the less touristed end of the backwaters, with some locally produced gin in a plastic bottle, and a clinking sack of tonic water (quinine is still used as a malaria prophylactic I'll have you know). The boys sported lunghis and thick bushy moustaches -- a must have fashion accessory across the entire subcontinent.

The crew onboard the houseboat were thrilled to see the moustaches and the lunghis, quickly stowing our luggage and engaging our menfolk in an enthusiastic lunghi tying lesson. A lunghi is essentially a sarong type sheet that brothers wear long, or folded and tied up. The effect is mini skirt at the back and nappy at the front. They continually fiddle with them, folding and refolding, letting them drop down and gathering them back up. I believe it's some sort of state sanctioned past-time.

I left the lunghi tiers and checked out our floating pad. Keralan housboats have long wooden hulls and a thatched roof that has a rounded shape and rounded window eaves. The two rooms were decked outin 70's beach house deco and at the front of the boat there were comfy deck-chairs and a mattress known officially as the 'sunbathing deck.' I also found a kitchen and in it, another guy fiddling with his lunghi.

It began blissfully, us chugging away across the wide waters that marked the place where backwater meets sea, turning down a narrower inlet and marvelling at life on the banks. Women beat wet clothes against stones, a man bottle fed a tiny calf. Sand was dragged from the riverbank by lean, dark men, who then hauled it onto flimsy canoes that sank right up to their lip under the weight. Manovering these canoes involved pushing a big stick to the river bed at one end, running along with the stick to the other end of the canoe.

And now this! In a few short hours, we'd gone from lazing about sipping gin and listening to Ryan's idle strumming, to being locked in a grimy room, replete with bare lightbulb dangling from a cord - long enough to be used as some sort of garrotte I noted as I took a furtive sniff of toddy. Aromas of coconut, vinegar, and lunghi sweat hit the back of my throat. I fought the urge to cry out something like 'For the love of God, no!' Ryan's stare spoke to me directly. 'This was your idea punk, now DRINK!' Thankfully, the boss man grunted in his direction, a clear indication that around here, it was a man's perogative to drink first. 'Skull Andy skull' I sang cheerfully, raising my glass to him. He death stared me till he tipped his head back and drained the glass with the sort of gulp only a guy sporting a Magnum P.I mo AND a skirt can.

There was no wild round of applause. Not even one hint of a broad Keralan smile. Instead, a sort of grim satisfaction rippled through the group before they settled their steely stares on the wanton woman in their midst.

What was I thinking? This stuff was always destined to be undrinkable, but my reckless and persistent thirst for authenticity (and liquor) had led us into a moderately threatening situation, simply to imbibe the fermented sap of a coconut palm, sap that had clearly been left out in the sun for too long.

The point of no return had presented itself with some fanfare well before we arrived at the shack. It was the coconut guru. He had sealed our fate. We were the last coconuts on the chopping board as far as he was concerned.

After a sublime lunch of Kerala fish fry, coconut chutney, beetroot sambal, and of course, generous G&T's, we piled into a small canoe to take in the back-backwaters.

We were punted down narrow canals, passing locals whose faces quite clearly indicated disbelief that we would want to tour through the very waterways they deposited their sewerage and god knows what else in. It was a fascinating ride past settlements, fish farms, tangled wet jungle and remote huts. After a time, we pulled up at the coconut village. Dried coconut dealers, coir (coconut fibre) manufacturers, coconut tree climbers, the whole place fairly buzzed with tropical fervour. Our guide lead us to a shabby hut, pointed and intoned in a rather ominous fashion 'coconut guru.' I nodded and said 'toddy?' He nodded in a slow and serious way. Whatever. We bounded up, inadvertently frightening the guru's tethered goat. It gave a short, fearful bleat and began savagely buffeting our female companion. A wiry, beat-up old brother wearing T-shirt that proclaimed 'My Dad's an ATM' hobbled over and yanked her out of harm's way, before reassuringly stroking the angry goat. The beast calmed immediately and went back to devouring a pair of child's panties.

The guru went back to his post by a large pile of coconuts. He picked one up, held it in one spindly hand and hacked it open with a machete he gripped in the other. Our young guide actually gulped audibly and began speaking machine gun Mayalayam. The guru kept chopping coconuts, but I swear an added ferocity crept into each hacking motion. I made out the word 'toddy' a half dozen times. The guide nodded studiously. Then the goaty old bloke dropped the machete, hurled it more like, into the ground beside his foot and picked up a stick. He drew a detailed diagram in the dust, speaking rapidly and aggressively poking one particular spot. When he was finished, our guide gulped audibly again and made to scurry off. Ryan held out a 20 rupee note. the guru snatched it, and then grabbed Ryan's forearm, drawing him close. He picked up the machete and slaughtered another coconut, spilling the liquid in the dust around Ryan's feet. He pointed to the wet patterns and spoke in wild, gutteral tones. He pointed at Ryan and then me, and then stalked off.

Back on the boat, we asked the guide what the hell that had been all about. He said 'Future..you..future.' The whole thing was becoming unsettling, truth be told. He furiously punted us back to the houseboat, dropped our two companions off, saying firmly 'only you two.'

It was a good 45 minute walk. It was getting dark. There was little idle chatter. At one point, we passed a billboard, a corner of the huge tattered poster flapping in the breeze. It read 'Men's Planet - terrorists of fashion! and gave the nearest locations. We had a good giggle at that one, till junior joined in, clapping his hands and shrieking 'terror, terror!' Feelings of mirth plummeted faster than an express elevator.

Set back in the palms, adjacent to a rubbish pile teeming with unseen beasties that moved under the top layer of rubbish, was the shack. Once, it would have been an attractive example of colonial/Keralan architecture with its peaked red tile roof and wood slatted walls. The walls acted as a screen, shielding those inside while allowing those inside to see out. A painted sign said 'Toddy' in both Mayalayam and roman scripts. The stick-toting ski mask man squatted and cackled. We had arrived. There was nothing else for it but to get the hell in, then get the hell out.

Past the cashier we go, him leaping up and slamming the door behind us. Past the wooden benches crowded with cloudy bottles. Under a covered walkway and into a room, its floor smeared and sticky with something brown and copious....curry I hope, but
I'm not too confident. Through a metal door to the bare bulbed, metal barred holding pen.

They seemed to want my success, but their eyes seem to bay silently for my failure, and whatever sinister ritual might follow such a transgression. I sigh imperceptibly and quickly recount the laws of yard-glass drinking imparted to my by my brother many years ago. Epiglottis stop to the trachea. Open that gullet wide. Don't breathe. I skull the glass, smashing it back on the table and grinding my nails into the rough underside of the bench as the coconutty, vinegary sludge hits my insides. Truly rank stuff.

Grunts. A chorus of them at different pitches. A flurry of lunghi tying and re-tying. Set back in the crowd, one gleaming tooth shines from the inside of a yawning chasm once more. We pay our few meagre rupees and stumble out the door with our guide, now beaming and clapping his hands again. We're clutching two fresh bottles of toddy wrapped in newspaper, presented as a gift from the toddy man.

How Good it is..

2006-10-10T15:06:00.000-07:00

How good it is.... how good it is....

When you are on the road, then your mind can wander free; a wonderful release from the bonds of a workaday life, the urban hum-drum, the relentless wheel of busyness Ry and I seem to find ourselves on.

On the road though, your mind is free to wander and to search. You look inward, but where you wish to pause and contemplate, to watch and reflect, at times you end up criticising yourself, becoming acutely aware of your shortcomings, and little worries can creep up on you.

It's such a strange state. On the one hand, you're free and zooming down country roads, eating amazing foods, picking walnuts direct from the tree, discovering the amazing kindness of complete strangers...and on the other, you can be consumed by these interior concerns that grow as you feed them with doubts and concerns.

Luckily, for me....the world constantly shows me the other side of the game. Different vantage points. Inspirations.

I have so much to share with you. Beautiful Bente and her farmhouse of self-reliance, where the garden burst with autumn vegetables, clothes are knitted from wool spun into thread on the wheel...a beautiful pagan woman trying to keep dreams afloat on a rickety old boat in the Barcelona harbour...living there alone while her partner tries to smooth out legal wrangles in a cold northern country, she welcomes guests with a gentle charm that is suffused throughout the whole boat; a grand wooden structure she describes as like 'living in a forest'. The Mistral winds of Provence that whistle through villages high and fierce. You can hear them coming from afar, moaning and gathering speed and whoosing over your little tent, giving you crazy dreams.

Oh so much to share. And sometimes the worries rise up and swallow a whole day, and for what? In Liguria, a total stranger sharing a house and music and history with us...and paintings -- oh the magical paintings on every spare vertical surface. In Firenze, in Tuscany, on the lake where Hannibal slaughtered the Romans and rode elephants.

What about Rome, meeting my family, learning how to gesticulate and how to say 'you're breaking my balls.' Seeing my Nonna's sister, who looked like her, cooked like her, and had the same gentle air. Trying to eat and not to break down, and to swallow that lingering regret, the only regret of my fairly compact life.

Oh so much to share...Today what strikes me are the stories of people. Other people, people you might not glance at twice. Or those who make a big impact with their dreams lived on a grand and gorgeous scale...These two people aren't so different...

The flower seller in Venice, an Indian boy of 23. We told him we didn't want his flowers, just his story...After waxing lyrical about the Taj Mahal...'Madam, you can't realise it. 20,000 people took 20 year to build it....a monument of love madam'...then he told us how he arrived. By foot and bus to Iran, and then somehow to Greece where he payed to be stowed away on a boat to Brindisi. Then he caught a bus to Venice. Now he sells flowers (which he hates, he hates those damn roses) without any papers at all, in a sense without any identity. He lives in a room with 10 other men, only one of who he feels he can trust. He has a degree in Political science from Calcutta University. He believes that every few years, the Italian government offers a moratorium on illegal immigrants, and he'll get papers. He speaks no Italian at all.

His eyes shone as he spoke of his dreams.

Then tonight, researching our next leg, I came across this inspiration...On her site she wrote
"Every dream is given to us with the power to make it come true."

A girl who trusted the world and relied on the kindness of others...she hitch-hiked the world for more than 5 years and documented her incredible journey. Trusting in the universe and in strangers. To read her site is to be inspired by the possibilities that open if you fling yourself into the void without fear.

Kinga died 3 months ago in Ghana from cerebral malaria. Reading her site and viewing her images is an exercise in inspiration; her sense of happiness so visceral.

http://www.kingafreespirit.pl

How good it is....how good it is....

Kimba in Paris

Grimbas conquer Celts

2006-09-06T13:14:00.000-07:00

On the road again -- feels like home

2006-07-23T12:50:00.000-07:00

America.

What can I say about this place...It is exactly like TV and it's nothing like TV. It was a difficult goodbye to the streets of Japan, the rain pouring on haphazard streets, the half-readable kanji blurred by water streaked glass and my own eyes that brimmed with the sadness of leaving, a sadness that stems from knowing that, when we return, it will be only as mere visitors.

As expected, we had numerous hurdles with our luggage that included two backpacks, three carry-on bags, and two guitars and a shamisen that needed to go on-board and not underneath. Hours of fun negotiation ensued. Here's Ryan pre-shave checking out his baggage ensemble:

A suitably uncomfortable plane ride (even in premium economy) involved obligatory screaming infants, corpulent snoring Americans, and ill-conceived airline fodder...not even the airline stewardesses provided any visual relief, what with a median age of 50 something and a slight hint of 'Yeah? Whatever' about them.

First purchase in America: Coffee from MacDonalds to get change for the phone.
Number of fake boobs seen at the airport: four inflated sets

We were met at the subway station by our host Steve and his neighbor Paul. As the gay games are on in Chicago, Steve and his partner Bob were already decked to the rafters with Australian gay men with tight bodies and muscle shirts, his neighbors Paul and Lisa had agreed to put us up.

Their place is absolutely gorgeous and the bed is like something from another world for us single futon ground dwellers. Plump, feathery, with multiple pillows and a thread count approaching zenith levels...mmmmmm

Also, just to really indulge our Americana dream fetishes, Paul is an FBI agent and Lisa is a lawyer. No shit...you could not ask for a better start to the visit than that, except for the fact that these guys are incredibly generous and accommodating and Paul LOVES Chicago and decided that we had to do all the "bests." Cue trip to Connie's pizza joint where we all sucked back deep-dish pizza and Corona Beer.

For those ingnoramus's amongst you, deep dish is like a pizza pie -- it has a thin crust and an edge like a pie and then the topping is just loaded in there in goopy, cheesy, super-size me layers. After two pieces (minus the crust) we were spent, and the box of leftovers was actually impossible to carry in one hand. We got a thick crust version -- here it is.

The next morning, Circadian rhythms spinning wildly like a polyphonic pocket watch playing Mrs Malaprop's greatest hits, we rose at 5.30am. By 8.30am we were decked out with two incredibly zoopy hybrid bikes, one care of Steve and Bob because Lisa is a 6ft Amazonian and I couldn't even hook my leg over the frame!

We rode into town along the bike path that runs along Lake Michigan -- A brilliantly, independently free and democratic blue sky day glinting with radiant flecks of industry and ingenuity. The path was crowded with fit people, training for the marathon, tour de France, Marathon De Sables, or the fake boobie beach volleyball tournament. The Chicago skyline is breathtaking -- it's like Gotham city and 2050 -- a silver odyssey all rolled into one. Here's me trying at an 'I built this city' pose:

We zoomed around on the bikes all day. We were obsessed by exteriors, by the way things gleamed, by the intensity of the green grass, the ostentatious fountains, the sheer size of things. Streets sprawled widely, giving us a sense of what it means to be an 'avenue.' Public art is huge here, and we were impressed at how much spectators could play, interact, and merge with the art on display.

THE BEAN

THE VIDEO FOUNTAIN

We rode for hours, delving into different neighbourhoods, and having to do a few quick reverse manouvres. In Chicago, neighborhoods change in a block -- one minute it's all Starbucks and tree-lined streets, the next there's abandoned tenement blocks and feelings of ill-will and impending danger.

Thrillingly, we encountered a young girl on the street selling lemonade -- I was so excited, that this REALLY happens in America and not just in the Babysitter club series. We took pictures, and bought a cup -- highly delicious, but subject to massive inflation -- a buck a cup as opposed to the 20c a cup I remember from my childhood fiction days.

After cruising back up the lake path, stopping off at 'Boystown', the gay distict, we arrived home to find Paul all geared up to take us to 'Superdawg'... What is Superdawg? Only the most famous hotdog place in the whole of Chicago...a 30 min drive up Milwaukee Ave, it's a joint where you drive in and park. There is a speaker phone at every car spot to order your food and the girls bring it out and attach the tray to your car window -- the only thing missing is the rollerskates. Here is Paul -- he is armed and knows what he wants, so just do as he says...

I am gonna sign off here -- the sun is cooling off and after lathering our sunburn in soothing aloe, we're back on the bikes, jet lag and all, to checkout a free music festival tonight.
One thing though -- I LOVE the fonts in America --- they simply rock.

Handstand Fool

2006-05-23T07:33:00.000-07:00

The day after he asked me to marry him, Ryan rocked out a few yoga moves at Miyajima, one of Japan's Top 3 beautiful views...

Put it away Ry ry...

G'day it's a bidet...

2006-05-23T07:08:00.000-07:00

Well well, when it comes to toilet convenience, Japan satisfies like no other sovereign nation. Pre-warmed, and packed with added features such as these handy little squirters. We hope you enjoy as much as Kimba did.

Drunken Japanese Dudes #1

2006-05-23T02:38:00.000-07:00

I have a whole host of videos like these... the real gems are tucked away on another hard-drive, but these two will warm you up...

Genki boys can't save their trash-bag friend...but he still manages a peace sign..

The hidden Karaoke Files

2006-05-23T02:24:00.000-07:00

A truckload of cheap nasty booze...a frisky feeling...2 hours of private karaoke booth fun...It can only end up with dancing on the menus

VB song -- Bringing cultures together

2006-05-23T02:08:00.001-07:00

yay for YouTube! At last we can deliver you all a batch of videos from Japan, without having to know anything about compression or HTML...

I love you YouTube! Sorry it's messed our layout up a bit -- but for the sake of the video I think it's worth it.

Here's a classic from Anzac Day -- check Ryan's duds out. It was a joint Turkish Australian gathering (great concept) and the guys did a great job in accompaying Ryan

First Blossoms

2006-03-17T20:29:00.001-08:00

An awful day on Wednesday, I was walking around and tripping over my bottom lip. My heart was weeping. I was berating myself for my own shortcomings...worse than that, my body clock was screaming at me 'to hell with your plans, let's get this baby-show on the road.' Why does my body fight my mind this way? I felt as if I were nothing but a mess of amino acids, neural electricity; a tepid flush of ragged hormones.

After staring at the kitchen table for a while, a few fat tears plopping onto the formica, I dragged myself out and got on the bike. Always a great move. Soon I was weaving along new streets, just as the Izakaya mama-sans were plugging in their neon street-signs and sweeping the streets out front of their little noren curtains. Kid sounds from the baseball park. Notes from a tuba carried on the wind from the high school across the street.

I found a cherry-tree, still bony and dry with winter's chill. Peering closely, I saw the first round buds swelling on the branch - not yet green. This will be the tree I follow each week, until it bursts with fragile blooms.

It's an ordinary tree in an ordinary street, but for two weeks a year when it, like every other ordinary cherry tree becomes a flossy, chiffon beauty. I'm going to watch this tree unfurl, and revel in the process.

Hitting the roaring freeway, I held my breath till the lights changed and pushed through my thighs to clear the little hill, weaving around salary-men already giddy with the thought of their first beer. I've learned to remain a tourist in my own town, to marvel at the things we soon grow used to. Japan is an easy place to learn that lesson.

All the cherry branches slept, light and stark, full of hope.

Pushing up the hill toward the castle, zipping along the moat, riding like I was back in the bmx days of the past, troubles dropped away, falling like the city dust that pinged off my mud-guards. I cleared the top and cut away from the castle gates, the peach and plum groves opening below me in a fuzzy blur of watercolour.

I inhale air that skips over the dappled blossoms. It's a sweet light crush that lingers, but that you could never hope to capture in glass or plastic. Tears come to my eyes again, but they're fresh and light, like the blossoms, like a new page, like
a pause that holds the infinite.

The light drops away and I head for home, passing the artist packing away his brushes and paints, his painting drying on the easel, just visible in the dim of early evening. As I pass my cherry tree, an old lady walking her dogs smiles, nodding at me as she points out the road home.

Hotel Gang Snowman

2006-02-05T22:40:00.000-08:00

Hello peoples of the world.

Yes, it's been forever hasn't it! I must keep these posts shorter and sweeter to protect my bung rsi arms from overload, but I have a little resolution to make these posts more frequent, with lots of pics!

The wedding....ahhhh, the wedding...a magnificent event, something truly spandangelous, fantabulous! Ahh the romance of it all, and for some, the debauchery...Most of you were there, so I need not bang on and on about it...We are awaiting professional pics...Until then, you many want to feast on some prelims on this site:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/49503158662@N01/sets/1516024/

What I do want to bang on and on about in this short post is Hotel Gang Snowman. Yes, even though we live in a huge house and yes, even though we are married, we still like to visit the odd RABERU HOTERU for a bit of a peek. This one advertised the fact it had a red cadillac on the roof that had been turned into a hot tub...Ohh yes, sir, me sir, I like hot tubs sir!

In keeping with our promise to explore as much of Japan as we can, we met on a Thursday afternoon, bundled up like babooshkas, and wandered the streets of our town. We entered Den-Den town, land of electronic goodness and many, many geeks (and curiously, the land of many shops selling pepper spray, machetes and air rifles???). It was there I spied a place called Rasberry Dream, a 'maid cafe'. We went in!

Essentially, maid cafes are like hostess bars for kids and geeks. The place was full of rampant geeks, finishing off a day's joystick shopping with a caramel parfait and a wistful glance at a chick dressed as a manga maid. Naturally, we too indulged in a spot of parfait, but instead of peering at the maids (who were not really that cute) we just listened to the conversations around us and wrote in the maid's cute little diaries.

The boys next to us were indulging in a spot of that much-loved geek past-time. Quoting movie scenes to each other. One guy was doing the whole movie, the sound effects, the music and all the characters, while the other snorted into his hands a lot. It was total gold.

In the maid diary, we found this pic of one regular. He had pasted in many different pics of himself, and in each one he had a weapon of some kind. In one he'd even written MIG in white out with an arrow pointing to the gun. This was my fav though, as he was obviously going all out and mixing all his obsessions into one.

When we left, we saw another place across the road that offered maid reflexology...we will definately be trying that one out!

We got hopelessly lost searching for the hotel, but about 10km and 20 freezing toes later, we stumbled upon it, after dark, in all it's polystyrene snow covered glory. HOTEL GANG SNOWMAN

Alas, the cadillac was taken, so instead we opted for the disco-disaster-UV-spasm-mega-dungeon room....Words fail, buildings crumble when I attempt to explain, so here are some pics instead:

There were two bathrooms - here's the one we didn't use!

This was our favourite room - Liberace would have felt right at home with the mix of prints, although there was no karaoke, which disappointed me.

Sorry about the pics, they are from my phone camera! So, what did we do in this crazy place? Played Playstation of course!

There is so much to write about, and catch up on, so I will try to do a short post most days.

Here are a few scans from our latest project: Our household has a Tuesday night 'Crafternight' in which we drink sparkling wine and make stuff - Hannah showed us how to make stencils and this week we are going to marinate our own artichokes!

By Ryan

Kimba

by Hannah

Finally - I am organising a cabaret at a sexy new nightclub. Here is the little blog I have made with the performer profiles - it's still undergoing construction, but it's very fun anyway.
http://www.caligulacabaret.blogspot.com

loving you all!

More tales in Pictures

2005-08-12T03:42:00.000-07:00

Here is a glimpse into our world.

Ry...what can i say?

Hello Kawaii Japan...Genki?

We support your socks life

Show them the force

Waiting for the entourage

WE MISS YOU ALL!!!

One year in the city

2005-08-12T03:23:00.000-07:00

One year it's been...

A crazy busy joyful year...today this I dream

Countrycity back door step slow moving steps
music making freely rearing wild children chasing
chooks

slow moving money nesting hard work slowly
stretching body verandah snoozing jazz
stereo no tv blaring

all electronics in one place out the door
down garden path rambling footsteps

bye bye big city feeding dreams
bye bye running all around now sitting down
walking wide walk places
writing fixing ambition free from rushing doubt

just being hammock swing
piles of books joyfully dusted and stacked
records playing at all hours
heard from the veggie patch

slowing slowing moments now
no movements but for lung gushing
air gulps of free time

family of four mushroom picking in the fields
sunday seascapes driving

Melbourne Town...Jolly Jazz and a Happy Hora

2005-03-25T19:03:00.000-08:00

So where am I at? Right now I am sitting here with last night's makeup still clinging to my face. Moving slowly with the holiday vibe, even though RyRy is off working AGAIN! He is a model citizen, a master of giri (obligation) and a real trooper.

Recounting my journey I believe we have arrived in Australia, me completing 4 flights on my own with only a few wheezy, tearful moments. By the time I reached Japan again, I had flown 10 times on my own, and while the bottomless panic that often accompanies me on flights has eased, I realise now I am always going to be one of those 'nervous flyers' for whom only a valium and a large G&T can provide solace.

Beautiful homecomings - the day I arrived began with a long wait as Ryan had to encouter the worst traffic jam of his career coming to pick me up from Avalon airport...after a couple of hours of searching for one another (sans mobiles) we hooked up just in time to get ready for our first gig in Melbourne.

Here is a little slice of Melbourne as I see it.

Joyful, joyful to play with muso friends again - even if they are young ruffians...the melbourne jazz "derros" have a musical soul I am yet to discover in other places in the world...it's irreverant, it's lacksadaisical, but somehow it combines in a wonderful musical force. I still wouldn't trust these guys with my daughter though, would you?

Fresh outta happy pills!

Obviously the greatest drummer in the world.

But in any case, he looks after his bitch:

We played a solid set to a welcoming home-crowd and the good vibe only continued the following night when we played Mama Fresh as 7 piece to a solid crowd...The next night we had another gig! This one was Shamdoogie, as an 8 piece band, with 4 horns to an absolutely packed house at the Kitten Club. People were losing it, screaming and we had a lot of Cab Calloway call and answer style stuff with the audience. The band was just on fire, lots of stops where the horns would play over a whole chorus without any accompaniment...who would have known that semi-trad jazz would go down so well with a crowd of Craig-David wannabes!

In the midst of all this music and mirth, we had the honour of attending our beautiful friends' wedding celebrations. Katia (pixie) and Noah (cub). 2 gorgeous beings and soulmates, just the mere thought of their loving energy brings a tear to this Nanna's eye! We were invited to their Jewish Shabat dinner - a huge long table laden with amazing foods and smiling faces all talking at once.

Isn't she a tasty dish!

On the Sunday we went to their wedding. It was to be held in the grounds of the Rudolph Steiner school, a sprawling tangle of Australian native forest, grass, cubby holes, and beautiful buildings. Parakeets cawed overhead and and there were even peacocks. Ryan and I held hands and imagined our kids running around this school, climbing trees and being expressive....ahh it was bliss and before long we wandered down to a far patch of forest for the ceremony.

I have forgotten what they call it, but they had a little canopy that the loving pair stood under during the ceremony. Our camera was outta juice, but they looked scrumptious. Noah was all low-key and tres rugged handsomeness and Katia was glowing in a strapless gown in shades of plum and dusty rose (and a little midas touch!)

Everyone gathered around the pair in an intimate circle, so we were all part of the ceremony. The dreamy way Katia smiled during the ceremony, it was just divine...Needless to say we had a really special day with them. These Russian jews can dance...as soon as the ceremony was over it was back to the hall for a good hour of dancing the hora. basically everyone in the whole room was involved, the inner circle of young, handsome men spinning around and around with their hands around each other's shoulder's, the bride and groom leading people out of the large outer cicle to dance and the ladies leading the way with some neat footwork and hand flourishes. After an hour of this everyone was sweaty and grinning! And they carried the two newly-weds on chairs over their heads, bouncing them up and down precariously. I really wished I was Jewish at that point, so I could have the Hora at my wedding.

We trekked on the next day to see a possible venue for our wedding. The place is utterly incredible. We whizzed from there to Albury to catch up with Ryan's folks. We got into some good Aussie outdoor action, rafting down the rapids at this river spot in the country. Ryan and his sister Kate are just like two peas in a pod. Aren't they just dolls!

Ryan's parents threw us an amazing engagement party - lots of family and delicious foods, good wine and happy vibes. We got all excited about being engaged again...such heady times, being able to be romantic and gammy all the time...We had a big old jam, playing some tunes for the crowds... Kate got up and shared her gorgeous, blossoming voice and Ryan's old guitar sensei hopped in as well. Even old man Griffo, Ronny G got up and delivered some velvet Elvis-like tones to the room.

The Ancient Surfer

Well - I guess I should leave this for today - We have a Rockabilly gig tonight and our chart book is un utter disarray. I promised to be a good housewife these next 2 weeks while Ry is being the huntergather, so I guess I'll put on some Buddy Holly and tend to the house - my domestic proclivities constantly wax and wane!

But I just wanted to introduce you to the star of my next blog entry, Miss Lilly Rose Miles.

There's no place like...home?

2005-03-24T08:34:00.000-08:00

Two Reasons not to visit Pakbara

Hello loyal patrons of this humble site - apologies for the long stretch of silence, but most of you have hugged, held and harrumphed with us in the flesh these past 6 weeks, as we (or I specifically, Ryan being the shining example of Japanese diligence) have gallavanted across the world, spreading music and cheer.

Now I wanted to begin this blog with a clear pictorial warning about why nobody should ever spend the night in Pakbara, Satun Province, Thailand. I am not saying these people are evil or dangerous, but couple them with a complete lack of beer at any eating joint in town, and you begin to see why I need to offer such a stern and direct warning.

That said, even if you are forced to spend the night in the purgatorial vistas of Pakbara, the next day you are rewarded with this:

Koh Lipe. A slice of heaven surrounded by azure waters filled with abundant sea creatures, while on shore many Swedish gods await you, accompanying the divine sunsets with displays of volleyball prowess, while the Gypsy Kings' 'Bamboleo' rings out every night at 5pm.

A beautiful view

Though the island sits in the Andaman sea, right between the tsunami hit zones of Krabi and Langkawi, incredibly this little place was completely untouched by the devastation. I spent 4 blissful days there in the company of long-lost friends and it was a joyful start to my journey.

Something is coming over me - I don't know how to explain it, but every time I see a cute kid I get this insatiable urge to starting taking pictures, in between going "eeek - sooo cute...ahh kawaii". I am just not sure - Is it the Anne Geddes syndrome? Or am I just getting ridiculously clucky? Either way here are a few samples of my 'kid-pics' from the start of the trip.

It was hard to leave, so, so hard. The only things that made it possible to leave was the prospect of seeing the beautiful Ry-Ry and heading back home for a stretch...

That's a funny thing - this concept of home. I got back to Melbourne and I felt like I was home, but only because it was familiar and all my mates were there awaiting me with open arms. I felt connected to the place, but I didn't feel like it was a home-coming neccessarily. Now, when I visit Canberra, I feel the same thing only 10-fold. I have many memories there and dear friends too, but I can't say in any way that it is home to me.

Now here I am, back in Japan. When I got here, well Ryan was waiting for me and he bought me back to our house and I thought 'Wow - I'm home!' So, is it that having a place where you walk in and shut the door and it's your space...is that home? Or is it having a connection in some deep way, say to another person, so that whenever you are there with them, in whatever place, it is like being home? I like the sound of that, because it means we can make our home where-ever we wander! ( A bad Paul Young song from '86 is coming to mind here...)

I have a lot of stories to tell about my travels...about making joyous music with the Melbourne rogues, about the way your heart leaps in circles when you see wonderful friends again....about how spiritual and sublime it is to watch two friends commit their lives to each other under a gorgeous February sky and how your whole spirit moves to hear the stories of old men.

Then there are the stories of Thailand. Of smashed buildings, ruined beaches and hearty resilience. Of having money to give and finding so much corruption and guile that I felt sick...the burden of money, even when it was raised with love...Of learning and being blessed with teachers.

I have a couple of free weeks and so I am going to share these snippets with you, little by little. It's late now and a cold snap has come over Osaka, alongside a ferocious wind. My clay sake jug is empty and my lover is curled in bed, with another early start, so I leave you with some more images and a promise to tell another tale tomorrow.

Kimba xxx

I love a viking in the morning!

This is my awesome bro -
can you see the resemblence? We are all dressed up to go see the Doors...and hey! They were pretty bloody good and any fool who says they are like a cover band is forgetting about Ray...Yeah, so sexy Jim is dead and he was the pull of the group, but Ray Manzarek wrote all those amazing organ bits...so cut em some slack! We had a ball.

I just look at this and think - Sydoneee mateee!

Our gig guide

2005-02-08T18:39:00.000-08:00

Hey crew- due to popular demand here is a list of our gigs while we are home. Stay tuned for a blog from Thailand in between now and the time we are kissing your ears with loving melodies.

Thursday 24th Feb - Kimba and the Welcome Sake Trio - Rrose Bar, 7 Errol st North Melbourne 8.30pm FREE(jazzy stuff with Burner on trumpet)

Friday 25th FEb - Mama Fresh - Kitten Club 10.30 FREE (Soul food)

Saturday 26th Feb - Shamdoogie - Kitten Club 10.30 $5 (Swing it - sing it, shout it)

And hey - sign the guest book!

Love Kimba

Sliding horizons

2005-02-07T13:12:00.000-08:00

Soon after the full palette of the day's light narrows to the duskier hues and the thick smog daubs a hazy softness upon an already graded horizon, there comes a moment of perfect density of vision. From the foreground, blurred from speed of the train, to the extreme depths of the picture crammed with the normally pixelated squareness of a miriad apartment buildings, there is non-stop continuity of stuff. Stuff and not space.
The landscape of Western Japan is a continous city where space as we know it in Australia is an interruption, an afront, to the startling concentration of habitation.
Looking out of the train window, the heated seating creating a thin layer of condensation on the perspex, I almost get the same feeling that I have had gazing upon a never-ending sunburned plain in central NSW - that sense of vastness, of continuity. The eye can rest on the whole picture and not be taken by the intrusions of buildings and the like. Here it is the same but inverted. Where there is a blank spot of land, my eyes experience a shock and the horizon is thrown out of perspective. But not today. Today it is a perfect picture. A sliding horizon.

ryryry

How to Propose 101 and some other things...

2005-02-07T11:45:00.000-08:00

Orrrrlightee then. Here's another tardy bloggy from the Ryster. Heir Griff, now bethrothed to his beloved partner in crime, will hereby embark on some enlightened kind of rant...

Time has zipped on by so quickly. Especially since returning to Osaka and the generally grand experience of marimba and boom-whacker jams with raucous rugrats. Our Christmas and New Year was exactly what we needed. Some time to ourselves, a chance to be tourists and the perfect scenario for a proposal, the story of which is now a much-told tale here in Osaka.

We spent some time over New Year's WOOFing n a little Edo period town called Takehara near Hiroshima. The Iwakawa family with whom we stayed were nothing but wonderful; a family of jolly gourmandes who shared their busy wholesome lives with us for a week. Youji-san runs an organic soba noodle restaurant and his wife Noriko-san is a potter and at the time we were stayting with them was in the process of opening a little cafe and pottery gallery across the road from the soba place. We spent our days shuffling back and forth between both shops, munching on soba delights here and selling pottery to the rare Japanese tourist there and although we were theoretically working, we spent more time digging their home-nosh and gulping sake than we did breaking our backs.

Just a little way up the stone alley there is a wonderful traditional sake house called an osakekure which dates back to the 1700's. The old fellow who ran the place, Taketsuru-san, has the glow of someone who has spent a large portion of their days supping on the fumes of fermenting rice. All in all a top guy; he gave us some sake and some engorged scallops for tempura and sent us on our way - two Grimbas grinning.

But of course it goes without saying that this interlude was not by any shade of the imagination the highlight of the trip. It was amidst the flake-laden winter breeze atop a holy mountain that I finally got around to doing the thing that planted itself in my thoughts ever since I arrived here in Japan. It really blows me away when I think about how much my feelings around the topic of marriage and notions of 'the rest of your life' have changed since arriving. I know why of course - putting ourselves in this new situation, havng to use some 'don't wait, just go for it' vibes to get ourselves setup and find jobs has definetely instilled a confidence to take chances and go with my ticker.

The story goes as follows:
We had finished our stint in Takehara and headed by bus to Hiroshima and then on from there to Miyajima. After a short detour in which we temporarily lost our new camera (thank God for Japanese honesty), we found ourselves on the ferry heading out across the Seto Inland sea for Miyajima and the floating gates. As we passed the ancient temple gates poking out of a receding tide, Kimba said to me that she was feeling shabby and that she didn't think she could do the climb that day. As she said this I fingered the immense rock on the ring in my pocket and steeled my resolve. I said that she had no choice, that we were going to climb the mountain today no matter what...Oookay then... she said and that was that. As we alighted the icy steps, Kimba groaned and moaned and sniffed and coughed. Perhaps it was sadistic of me to make her climb when she was feeling so average but I was a man on a mission. I urged her on from behind with snowballs aimed at her rear and tried to get an idea of what I would do when we got to the top.

When we did eventually arrive at the summit I gave a perfunctory glance at the scenery and set about finding a perfect place for the big moment. I draggeed Kimba over to this big rock and tried to get her to climb ontop but she wouldn't do it so I drageged her over to the side of the lookout and lo and behold there it was...a perfectly round snowball the size of a rockmelon placed there by the Gods for my solemn purpose. And so as Kimba was breathing in the waves and the beauty I poked the ring into the snowball. I assumed a baseball pitcher stance and then with a steely gaze I gestured to throw it.
"You better not throw that bloody thing at me Ry", said Kimba.
"Nah, just kidding," I replied and dropped it onto the rocks next to us.
"Hey," I said, "what's that?"
"What?"
"That thing there," I said as I leaned down and picked up the ring.
"Did you put that there?" I winked at her.
"Where did you get that?" Kimba asked cheekily.
"Don't you worry about that, let's see if it fits..."
It fit.
And then I promptly asked her to marry me. Well in actual fact I didn't really ask, I kind of told her to marry me...

Ah it's so romantic...hehehe. This story was floating around for weeks at my various schools and I was so chuffed that I had been so original and quirky until someone told me that the main character in Japan's equivalent of Neighbours, Winter Sonata, proposed exactly the same way. Snowball, mountaintop. Damn plagerists. Anyway, my Japanese co-workers were impressed because they thought that I watched the show and they asked me whether or not I quoted Pei Yong Jun in the big question. Er...

And so we were engaged. The next day we got blessings and hoorahs of parents and friends and over the next week or so we received so many beautiful emails congratulating us. Thank you all for your brilliant and kind words, we can't wait for you all to join us at Grimba Fest in about a year from now.

Stay tuned for more...

ryryry

Rockabilly Debrief

2005-02-06T18:55:00.000-08:00

Last weekend we debuted Shamdoogie in Japan. We put together a great bunch of musicians from all over the world including our close friend Eric on drums, Sasaki san on bass, a rockin sax player who goes by the name of Britain Barber and of course myself and the one and only Woman of Boogie herself, Kimba. The club we played is this massive night club called Sam and Dave's. It's probably the largest and most raucous and arguably most inappropriate venue for swing music in Osaka. Nevertheless we rocked and the crowd shook and shimmied and dug our down home brand of boogie-woogie rock n roll.

By the time we finsihed our first set the place was jam packed with over 800 sweaty clubbers primed for the throb of pox house and the lube of over-priced cocktails. And so swing was usurped by the DJ and we were told that we weren't going to do our second set. The troops in the band we really down - we had rehearsed really hard for this one and over that mean we had forked out a fair amount of dosh for studio time. In the end, we escaped and all piled into this Irish guy's supervan and came back to the Grimba ranch and drank and laughed and kept digging the plonk and thwack of western swing while the Irish guy's dogs grinned and soiled our floor.

All in all, not a bad end to a night.

Stay tuned for some pics...

ryryry

Wordy Urges

2005-01-15T01:39:00.000-08:00

This place never ceases to amaze, delight and perturb me. My list of possible blog topics has become an overgrown mess of images, confusions, conversations and quotable quotes. The tumultous events of the past month combine, my brain a humming mass, electric impulses of joy and grief snapping back and forth, pinging around like the silver pachinko balls that keep the working masses sedated. In my case though, the effect is anything but inert – urges rise, a hankering to DO stuff…write, raise some cash to try and fill even a tiny hole in the web of hurt along the coastlines of asia, get our tune out to the good people of Japan…and now there is a wedding to organise!

Haiku is a deepening passion, reading the old masters and younger upstarts (who wrote 50 odd years ago) and sorting out the tangled thoughts of my mind by a process of shaving off syllables. Here are a few of my recent offerings:

December dragon wakes
Shouting down the phone
Mountain stands silent

Oh happy heart!
even as the snow lies
frozen on the ferns

the smell of sagebrush
and shimmering landscape
this lonely winter bed

I flung out my arms
and cursed the sea
every little bit of it

The child within her
this his morning thought and then-
the angry tide came

I search for the words
to conjure a raging foam
but I was not there

When a language is removed from it’s native source, it’s scope for meaning is not necessarily diminished…In some ways, a whole new dimension of possible meanings are created for the foreign ear. The way a word sounds when one has no idea of it’s concrete meaning, this allows language to become a form of music. Random combinations of words written down seem exotic, secretive and impressive. Nowhere does this theory ring truer than in Japan, where the English language and the romanji script are used as signifiers of quality, fashion and class. What the words actually mean hold little significance, it is their very visual or auditory presence through which this message of quality is transmitted. For the English wordsmith this means one magical thing: found poetry. While many people see ‘Engrish’ or ‘Japlish’ as a comic phenomenon (which it surely can be) many native English speakers view this practice as an example of just how little the Japanese really understand of their mother tongue.

I see it as a marvellous form of poetry, combinations of words I would never think of using, the coupling of conceptually alien objects and descriptions…here is a little example.

A FOUND POEM FROM MY PANTYHOSE PACKET
If only you screw up your courage to step in
The brightest life will be yours
In which all the guys praise your beauty
To the skies
With relish any your dreams will come true.

Eedesu.dakara.yume.izakaiya.gandiki.shaberu.tatoiba.tamago.san shu.kimochi.ikeman
The more Japan feels like home, the less I feel compelled to conquer it, or even to feel that we must stay for any particular stretch of time. I’ve met so many ‘old timers’ here – people who have lived here for 20 or 30 years and who still can’t speak a simple sentence of Japanese. I’ve met people who seem to hate the place, but who, shackled by the money, or a Japanese spouse, watch their lives sweep past them. They give off a faint air of disintegration, an odour of regret, and generally they bemoan their jobs, their students, the society.

Of course there are many, many others who have taken to their Japanese life with gusto. The other night in Kyoto we went to see some ex-pats do an Noh play in English - an adaptation of a Robert Frost play. The play wasn`t much chop and their stage craft was pretty stilted, but they were embracing their adopted culture with verve and passion - and the audience, a mostly greying collection of gaijins and spouses were doing the same thing...It`s a wonderful thing to see a foreign lass or chappie picking up the shamisen (yay for Ry!) or mastering the tea ceremony and who does this with an air of general enthusiasm for Japanese culture and not some incorrigable desire to be authentic.

We have settled into a far more settled existence - we get up at the same time in the morning and eat dinner together most nights - even the ones where I go off and sing my karaoke to those cardboard men. I work days on the gravy train at a university (that`s a whole other blog I will save for when I`m not at work:) )
do my proofreading in between times and then work on my tunes...Ryan is THE music teacher of the International school circuit here in Osaka and the kids absolutely adore him...I mean how could they not...photos to follow!

Speaking of pics, here are some of our recent trip to Takehara, where we WOOFED at a soba shop and a pottery store. So much has happened since then, so we never got around to writing all about that - suffice to say that we had an absolutely marvellous time and ate like kings. I am writing an article about soba at the moment, so stay tuned!
In the mean time enjoy a pictorial journey of our trip!

The strange state of Japanese-Gaijin Relations

2004-12-16T22:59:00.000-08:00

LONELY HOUSWIFE? not enough spice in your marriage? tired of being ignored? husband chasing younger women? want to get revenge? handsome gaigokujin man available mornings/afternoons for safe, secret fun! for a merry xxx-mas email:
EMAIL: greasedlightnin@mailbolt.com

IS IT HARD TO MEET A DECENT WF? I am 30's single Japanese man who'd like to meet a decent western woman for fun as friend first.I dislke person-arrogant,self-centerd,stuck-up,swindler,dishonest,narrow-minded,lack of respect for others.
EMAIL: worldtravellerforevermore@yahoo.co.jp

JAPAN.WISH YOU WERE HERE... dont be disappointed in Japanese girls..they dont know any better My friend from Aritan told me!don't worry be happy. Tomorrows another chance for her to waste your money..BLAH BLAH BLAH WHEN ARE YOU GONNA GET IT! No love in Japan.not gaigins fault.P.S. send me a virus i'm not scared!
EMAIL: stuck-record2015@hotmail.com

NAKED ENGLISH TEACHER THE REAL NAKED ENGLISH TEACHERFree English lesson with 38 yr old English gentleman teacher. Ask any Qs about male body. Teacher only is nude. Groups OK (ladies only). Fun. Learn something interesting. Serious students only please. For info mail barebonesenglish@hotmail.com

eee desu! It's Japanese for 'all good'

2004-12-08T23:05:00.000-08:00

Sorry! No really, we are truly, humbly, ground kissingly sorry for our incredibly tardy response in giving you some good loving from Japan...

I think I know how those indie bands feel - they put out one killer debut and then the pressure to continue that level of inspired expression leads to the bottle, to in-fighting, to a short break-up, band therapy and then, finally a triumphant return to the audiences that stood by them through their shocking second album.

Nah, to be honest life has just been jam packed - we are in that Japanese cultural stream and we are merging with it - the little things - remember that face washer I got for opening a bank account? Well I realised it is because they dont provide you with hand dryers and hand towels here and you can't POSSIBLY leave the bathroom with wet hands...So there it is in my bag, a little touch of the Nana in me.

It's in the embarrassment that washes over me when my phone rings on the train. I am still to gaijin to not answer it, but I feel a rosy tinge creeping over my skin as I muffle my mouth with my hand and try to make myself smaller than before.

It's in the way I don't say umm anymore..It's eto here, or ano if you are older and I honestly eto say it, eto all the time! And they have this crazy way of expressing disbelief, amazement, suprise and any combination of those emotions here. It is a little difficult to explain without an audio sample, but it's like you go EHHHHH and that EHHHH is exhaled on a rising tone that gets louder as it gets higher...I think it is a quintessential element of Japan...and I do it really far more than I should - it has become an integral expression.

It's the way I sniff and sniff and sniff if I am in public until I can hide away and have a good blow without anyone seeing me. Also in many Japanese public toilets, there is a button you can press which sets off an audio sample of a flushing toilet, which hides the sounds coming from inside your cubicle...I must confess I have started to use it all the time.

It's in the way I have lost all sense of Western cool...I think nothing of having Japanese friends to dinner and joining them in a sing song - belting out xmas carols while holding hands and smiling at each other - and then singing 'the titanic song' in unison. That is the joy of song and karaoke here for the common joe - it's a nostalgic thing and a romantic thing - they love songs that are 'very beautiful, very sad'.

Of course the longer we stay certain aspects of the culture really become challenging. The way people get out of the pool when we get in, as if we are dirty or something. Often people won't want to sit next to a gaijin on the train, especially kids - they will move to the other end of the train. When I do my yoga at the gym they all stare at me as if I really must be a screw loose. Whenever these hard stares freak me out I just try to remember that the Japanese live by this old saying 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.'

Some of my Korean friends have a really hard time here. One guy I know, well he was born here and his parents were both born here, but because his grandparents were Korean, he has to have an alien registration card...What the?!

Another thing here that I find very strange is their attitude to public eating. Evrywhere you go there are convenience stores and stalls selling takeaway goodies. But you never see someone eating in the street or on a train or anything...Where do they go with these ready to go goods? So many times I have been dashing from one job to the next, knowing if I don't get some chow in I am going to be at the mercy of all that horrible cheap boujealois at the hostess bar. I surreptiously try to nibble at the rice ball I bought, only to have a whole row of people on the train stare in unadulterated digust - the horror, the horror!

It's nice to feel at home here - to kind of smile at the small earthquakes ('Oh it wasn't a big one'..that's lucky isn't it?) and to have lots of friends to visit and play with. Our building is full of friends - its great to head next door or downstairs whenever you want some company, need a spare towel, want to swap videos, cry on someone's shoulder or open that nice bottle of aussie red you found for 800 yen.

Musically things are moving steadily, but ever ever so slowly. That is one aspect of Japan we both feel infuriated by - The fact venues think you should pay them to play at their venue, sell tickets to all your friends and buy all your drinks at 600 yen (8 bucks). It's appalling. The thing is people here see music as a hobby, even great players, so unless you can get into a massive club or something it is so hard to get paid.

The other week Ryan went to this venue we have played at a couple of times for a meeting - It was at night (venues think nothing of calling you at 2am) and there was some schmo DJ playing. Teh meeting was pre-arranged, but when he got there the guy tried to charge him entry! When Ry was like 'Get out of town' (in his humble way) the dude looked tres confused - I mean why wouldn't this gaijin want to pay to have a meeting about playing here?

Saying all that, we have had some good breaks of late. We have found a tasty Japanese drummer who we are going to record with - his bass player is umm...ok, but all in all we are sounding good to record. We have a contact at the biggest chain of bars here in Osaka and they have asked us to do a rockabilly night in Jan. Should be a good payer, we are going to get swing dancers and the whole bit - they don't really know the diff between rockabilly and swing, as long as the boys quif their hair and wear checked shirts! ha h aha...We have a few xmas gigs as a duo, including one at the bar underneath our apartment - so good for stumbling home!

I held a trivia night here a month ago - it was a hell of a lot of work, but I packed the place out with gaijins and a few Japanese and made a bit of cash. The only bummer was that the trivia crowd are a bunch of total gubers - really sarcastic, loud and ungroovy - so not what I am used to as a performer! I think I will keep doing them every few months, if just for the experience of gathering useless facts..It's a kind of meditation.

I will write soon with details of my new job (at a university - choice, back on the gravy train!) and some pics of our recent trip. Post-xmas sees us going to WWOOF for a week (willing workers on organic farms - free food and accomodation and a chance to play in the snow!) and then in Feb 2005 we shall fly past Australia for a 2 week visit! YEEE HAA! We have gigs booked at the Kitten Club for Friday Feb 26th (Mama Fresh) and Sat Feb 27th (Shamdoogie). Catch you all there.

Here is a poem I wrote for my grandfather.

Farewell from the Cold Mountain

I rang the bell for you
four times...for the man
the father, the grandfather
and on-
You are my ancestor now

In your name I lit
the candle - then incense
from the holy flame
the path to heaven shines

I threw cold water on the soil-
an image, you harvesting
the land, coaxing seed
into grain

Mist over cedar I recall
your blue eyes -
watching the last sunset fall
over the far paddock

Kxxx

Fading flowers and falling leaves

2004-11-13T19:27:00.000-08:00

I feel that life moves in 3 month cycles...excitement, effort, exhaustion, discontentment, change, and then excitement again.

So many stories to tell, but the feeling that surprises me today is one of longing. For easy conversations with old friends. For the feel of the spring breeze as I take a walk down Brunswick St. For the expression and electricity of a gig at the Kitten Club with the Sham.

This longing has such a sweetness to it, an ache that reminds you of what it means to live.

Yesterday my grandfather passed on and so this sense of life and longing takes me back to days when I saw the world by looking up at it. Of hot summers on the farm, the banging of the screen door, hiding under the billiard table, braving the emu to collect eggs from the chicken pen. Nana making breakfast eggs while we listened to the big wireless. Driving into town in the Statesman, the smell of those leather seats and Pa in his bowling whites. Pa on the tractor in the far paddock at harvest.

I wonder if he stopped by those paddocks, or took a stroll around the circular drive on his way out of this life...These memories give a tangible sense of change, and I recall that change is the constant and the catalyst in all things.

Here in Japan I have discovered Haiku again. Strangely it is not the works of the great masters that drew me back into this form (which the Japanese popularly call go,nana,go or 5,7,5) but that cranky old beat guy Kerouac. His American Haiku are wonderful. Perhaps not always as beautifully simple as say Basho or Skiki, but for me, these little lines contain a universe. Some of my favourites of his so far:

Useless! Useless!
- hard rain driving
into the sea

The winter fly
in my medicine cabinet
has died of old age

While meditating
- I am Buddha
Who else?

I have started to write a few myself - they say it takes hundreds of attempts to write a good haiku, but I have enjoyed writing these anyway.

November 11 -
the last fading flowers are
picked for your doorstep

Walking in line holding
hands - the fat kid
skips at the back

On the platform
the businessman takes a swing
with his umbrella

Here are some images and snippets of life in Japan...the flame red and orange leaves standing out against the green foliage up the mountain in Mino. The warmth and beauty of these leaves, which burst forth with energy before they fall, their hue reminds me of a certain scarlet haired singer, whose heart I miss...The old man and his bent, humped body watering his many bonsai...as if this stooped position was due to so many years of tending these gnarled, abbreviated trees... the comical swaying and nodding of a whole row of Japanese seated on the train, sleeping, their heads bobbing in the precise coreography of a slumbering chorus...

Last night I held a trivia night - a lot of work, but very rewarding, attended by a large swag of intellectually competitive gaijin...plans to sell the night to some of the big venues, under the monkier EXTREME HARDCORE TRIVIA. heh heh...

Here are some more pics for your viewing pleasure.

I couldn't get this series to display as I had envisaged, but isn't it great? Here in Japan, it is totally OK to pass out or throw up on train platforms, to fall asleep while drinking in the company of work colleagues (as long as you are a senior in the company) and even to become a loud,staggering drunk (as long as you have a chaperone). People tend to find it very funny, but I must say I could do without the many 'platform pizzas' I encounter each night on my way home from work.

I want to do a series on drunken salary-men, maybe even a little short film, because it excites me to see behaviour that is so far out of the cultural and moral norm, which is still somehow sanctioned by this society. Here is another gem.

It is a bit hard to see with my crappy phone camera, but this is a businessman in full designer suit just face-planted on the platform, passed out. I actually went and checked his pulse, he looked like he had just crumpled and that was it.

This is Ry on his birthday - we had a lovely chilled night at home with friends, talking, eating brie (such a luxury!) and just chewing the fat! My baby is a man now, quarter century and all.

I have made friends with an older woman, she actually owns the building I live in. Every few weeks she takes me out and we eat somewhere nice, or climb a mountain and just talk. She always pays and won't let me contribute. After climbing a mountain in Mino, we had an onsen and then she took me for a traditional kaiseki meal. It is a formal meal of many small courses, predominantly vege, with a bit of fish. Look at the gorgeous presentation!

Ryan's bro is here and tomorrow we leave the city for the first time in months, to head up to Koya-san - staying in an old buddhist temple and being among the cedars and possibly the snow.

More tales soon, about my first ever gig as a journo (internal communications, bottom of the barrel, but you gotta start somewhere!)

Missing you all so much.
Vale James Eric O'Brien

Honourable Blog

2004-11-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

Hi there lovely people. It's Ryryry here. My literary trollop has been conspicuously absent of late which I humbly apologise for. Perhaps a more contextual way to apologise would be to say ' dear honourable friends and ever benevolent and loving family, I am sure that my notable lack of words has inconvenienced you all very greatly and that you have no doubt spent many nights pondering the grave disappointment in your ever compassionate hearts. I am of course completely unworthy of your honourable forgiveness but I beg of you to read on and set aside your honourable pain, albeit pertinent and just. I am humbly sorry.' Yes that would be a better way to say it. I should also promptly disembowl myself and be glad that I have preserved my honourable honour in deaths gruesome release. ehehehehehehe. silly language. all these O's in front of everything, a politeness built into the lilting ebb and flow of language signifying the Confucian ideals of pilial fealty and respect for group harmony, or simply put, the 'wa'. Wa. WA WA WA. That's a lot of honourably harmonious honorifics. Hmmmm.

So where have we left off... Well I am into a bit of a routine now with my teaching - every little bugger I teach can joyously wail 'Kookaburra sits in the Old Gum Tree' at the tops of their lungs and throw in a bit of 'It's a Small World After All' and numerous other brilliantly 'wa'ish tunes and some hearty whacking of tambourines and castanets and you've got yourself a wholesome good time. I am digging that stuff for sure.

We are snug as critters in our new abode and our burgeoning cactus garden is the stuff of a cartoon character's honourable buttock's nightmare. We are still a bit bummed over the fact that we are two ships in the night when it comes to our work schedules but we are trying to make sure we get some quality time to do Japo things and music things.

I have been jamming with some dudes. Some good players but most people play it pretty straight here - either that or so damn far out that your ear drums bleed - so I'm looking forward to meeting some more people and sucking their musical sap.

Kimba has been not so well of late, recovering from severe pharangitis, which has been honourably and honestly highly poo-ey. I hate to see her sick. But she is on the mend now and in true White Lion form she will bounce back and be on the bawdy bandwagon again for more fabulous Grimba adventures. YAY!

By the way, I had a great birthday and thanks to those of you who sent me kind words via the guestbook, email and snail mail. I love you all. A quarter of a century hey?

J'a mata ne. MAIDO!

RYRYRYRYRYRYRYRYRRYRYRYRYRYRYRYRYRY

Words are obsolete

2004-11-03T01:30:00.000-08:00

Basically I am totally buggared - a head full of stories but a body that drags itself to work and then flops into bed...Ryan and I are like ships in the night and we are both dreaming of an hot-spring up in the mountains...

More words to come about my trip to the doctor (scary), girls night out at a girlie cabaret, rockstar Ryan and my first journalistic assignment - but for now - cop a load of these pics, as a mere entree...

this is Kaz, the guy who helps us out with gigs and the funk god who Ryan plays with in a band called Cool Da Beat. My favourite song of his goes `motherfucker, I really don`t like you, motherfucker, get out of my life`...classic

Doesn`t Ry look like an Angel, with that goldeb bath of light and the little wings? This was his halloween gig and he is rocking out a huge guitar solo...

I had four halloweens this year...this is one of the cutest little dolls around, but notice how unthrilled she is to be standing next to a scary gaijin in a weird mask!

Another halloween at my regular class..All the girls were screaming and saying `Kowai` which means scary..this boy was loving it.

This is ry in part of his halloween costume...this is the adults version as he is hlding one of those soft core hentai mags and looking a little too much like a pervy salary-man for my liking!

Here I am in hostess mode..notice the glassy eyes and the dreamy smile - I am thinking of some quiet place where no karaoke machines pierce the twitter of birds and the gentle rustle of the wind in the palms...

Awww! It is easy to get very clucky in this country - have you ever seen anything so adorable?! They call Pooh bear `Pooh San` here...it`s totally cute or Metcha Kawaii!