1. A water bottle sits in the park on a worn wooden bench. Suddenly, its arrival delayed until it has already left a second later, a flying walnut appears. A moth! But what small wings it has. What would compel it to come to the park this early with the sun still hanging somewhere behind the clouds on the horizon. Perhaps overwhelmed by the daylight it flits about the bright orange cap of the water bottle. A metallic wire flicks from between its two sets of hundred eyes. The proboscis feels about rim of the cap, slipping along the groves. Fine-tuned the nectar-sucker drops and slips between the bottle and lid. Distorted, through the glass the black filament curls, its width flowing like a wave as it passes under the imperfections on the bottles surface. The proboscis snaps back and the moth, presumably disappointed is gone.
2. Far up upon the hill we watch the waves wash against the inaccessible beach below. Even from this height we can see the shape of mullet cruising back and forth amid the rocks in the shallows. Their shapes traverse the spectrum of colors; from the gentle browns and grays which lie just beyond the sea foam of the break to the deep blues further out, where massive boulders show up as subtle chromatic changes. Somewhere in the middle of this spectrum there is a large silver torpedo mullet swimming in a tight circle. He seems as though he is drowning, gulping in air to save himself.
Minutes drag on the fish flips over so that his pail belly is exposed to the sunlight. He continues to move concentrically, holding to some invisible axis.
His movements become more erratic. He sinks for a few minutes and then appears again at the surface.
Eventually his movement ceases.
Was his swim bladder malfunctioning? Did he experience the fish equivalent to having to having a bowling ball chained to the feet? Relentlessly pulled upward to the harsh oxygen?
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Real Importance of the Supposed N =! NP Proof.
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/17/science/17proof.html?_r=1&ref=science
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A Dinner in Pictures
Tempura shrimp.
Cooked cabbage, onions, and tomatoes with soy sauce.
Freshly cooked rice.
Finished.
Southern Tsushima (with minimal words).
The follow photographs were all taken on a day-long drive along the Southern coast of Tsushima.
Looking southeast toward the mainland of Japan.
Same location, looking southwest (you can see the rice paddies far below).
Watery dead end.
Sea-cliffs.
Seaside shrine.
The author standing in a rice paddy.
The selection of a ubiquitous vending machine.
The town where this photograph was taken literally called "stone roofs". This is the reason. These are not found anywhere else in Japan.
The road.
The entrance to a roadside shrine in the forest. These gates are called torii.
Another view of the sea.
Looking southeast toward the mainland of Japan.
Same location, looking southwest (you can see the rice paddies far below).
Watery dead end.
Sea-cliffs.
Seaside shrine.
The author standing in a rice paddy.
The selection of a ubiquitous vending machine.
The town where this photograph was taken literally called "stone roofs". This is the reason. These are not found anywhere else in Japan.
The road.
The entrance to a roadside shrine in the forest. These gates are called torii.
Another view of the sea.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Obon
Obon is often called the Japanese equivalent of Thanksgiving. It is a time when many adults travel back to their parent;s houses for several days. During this time, the spirits of the one's ancestors are thought to return.
We drove down the road that winds out of the green hills and down to the fishing village that lies huddled against the ocean, now illuminated with flecks of gold by the sun, already low in the sky. The roads were narrow, though the cliffs that accompanied the car as it bumped along the ravines of the hills had been replaced by fences bordering on the lush green of rice paddies. The host's daughter who was sitting in the passenger seat leans far forward so that her small arms crossed on the dash. She is very shy and seemed to want to be as far from the strange looking foreigners in the back seat as possible.
The car slowly navigated the labyrinthine streets of the fishing village. Several older residents stood outside their front door and talked in the evening air. They looked up as we drove by; first the instant recognition as they meet eyes with our host driving the car, and then their surprise as they see the gaijin filling the back seat. Across the street two children are played, chasing each other around in the dirt yard. They stop to looked up as we drove by.
Our host's house is large. It is all a beautiful, light wood that we are soon to learn was chopped down by the grandfather many years before on the slopes of the mountains that looms above us. Almost every room with the exception of the bathrooms and kitchen have tatami mat floors. They are well-lived in. The kitchen wall is covered in pictures of the family's four children (One 10 year old boy, one eight year old boy, one six year old boy, and one four year old girl [the one that was afraid of us in the car]). They have arranged them so that there is a picture for each year, so that the eldest boy's string contains ten pictures and the youngest sister's contains four. Some of these pictures look to have been taken during holidays. Others are studio pictures. A few even appear to have been taken at some theme park with men dressed up as an analogue of the power rangers posing with the boy as he punches at the air.
The family is sitting in the television room, the eldest boy playing some baseball game on a console I have never seen before. Toys are scattered on the floor. Our host takes us into a back room and we see before us a kind of shrine. In the center is a framed picture of a recently deceased woman. It is haloed on its stand by a plethora of sundry objects: there are several candles, a small watermelon, an unopened beer, some packaged food whose label I cannot read. In a nearby corner are what looked to be wrapped gifts, I never learned what these were.
We then went through the ritual one by one that we would later do several times that night. We kneeled down on a cushion before the picture and taking two incense sticks in our hand, lit them. We then waved out the flame so that no light came from them any longer but they still smoked, and we placed them in a pot of sand among many other old incense sticks. Then we bowed twice, clapped twice, and then bowed a final time.
We later went through this same ritual at the neighbor's house. They all seemed very pleased that we had come, and the oldest man in the family eagerly showed us to his "shrine" (this probably is not the proper terminology, but at the minute I can think of nothing better). It was much larger since the person pictured had just recently passed away. He was all smiles as we did what we had done before in our host's house. Afterwards they gave us something to drink and had us take some fresh sashimi and tempuraed shrimp from their bountiful table. He leaned over and told us in Japanese that his brother would be very happy that foreigners had come to see him.
As good as the food was, it was not prepared for us, and after a few bites we walked back to our host's house. Their her father-in-law was setting up the barbecue. He had a bucket of turban shells (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turban_shell) and had already start to put them over the fire. His son brought out half of a large fish and placed that on the barbecue next to the shells. Suddenly our host came out with her mother-in-law and skewers of pork and shrimp, and balls of rice with pieces of fish in it were all on the fire. The children sat in tiny chairs at the edge and drank Coke. The daughter knocked her small cup over twice and the boys disappeared at intervals to play along the periphery of the circle of adults. The grandfather seemed especially pleased to have us there and quizzed us on what we thought of where we were from, what we thought of Tsushima, which of us was strongest. Had collected much of the seafood that we were eating (at least the fish and the turban shells). He laughed often and was constantly urging us to eat more. The fish may have been the best of the dishes. We ate it straight off the barbecue, each person taking a piece with their chop sticks. At intervals family members would slip off to go to one of the shrines to pray. The grandfather stayed with us though, laughing and asking questions.
Finally after the buildings around us had all but disappeared into the darkness, we were told that the big event of the night was about to commence. We walked down the street and noticed that other people also were emerging from their homes and filing in the general direction of the ocean. Fireworks were going off, their blaze shooting over the roofs of the houses. Eventually we meandered into a larger lane and saw five small boats, each probably six feet long being carried by sets of the town's men. Each boat had red, spherical lanterns hanging on it, lit from within. They bobbed and swayed as the boats were carried down the street and toward the ocean. I later learned that these boats symbolically contained the residents of the village who had died that year. For this reason they contained many articles that represented the deceased A young man went before all the boats throwing fire crackers and bottle rockets without care so that they went whizzing in all directions, making all before know of the coming of the procession of boats.
The man who had been so keen for us to visit the shrine of his older brother asked me a question which I did not understand. A few seconds later I found myself helping to carry one of the boats. I was surprised at how light it was as though I had actually expected to feel the weight of the older brother, sitting placidly, awaiting his trip out to sea.
We finally reached the port where much of the village was waiting for us. A this point the older man took the handle of the boat back for the final leg.
Amid a flurry of fireworks the five boats were towed out of the harbor by skiffs. They dwindled to points of light barely distinguishable from the oceanic darkness around. Somewhere out, framed by the infinite mystery of the dark ocean, between the endless expanse of stars and the cold dark ocean, the boat would be released to make their final departure from Earth. As we lost sight of the boats I could not help but glance over at the old man who had had us carry the boats. I wondered what he felt watching his older brother sail off into the night one final time.
Soon after, we turned and walked back into the lights of the town.
We drove down the road that winds out of the green hills and down to the fishing village that lies huddled against the ocean, now illuminated with flecks of gold by the sun, already low in the sky. The roads were narrow, though the cliffs that accompanied the car as it bumped along the ravines of the hills had been replaced by fences bordering on the lush green of rice paddies. The host's daughter who was sitting in the passenger seat leans far forward so that her small arms crossed on the dash. She is very shy and seemed to want to be as far from the strange looking foreigners in the back seat as possible.
The car slowly navigated the labyrinthine streets of the fishing village. Several older residents stood outside their front door and talked in the evening air. They looked up as we drove by; first the instant recognition as they meet eyes with our host driving the car, and then their surprise as they see the gaijin filling the back seat. Across the street two children are played, chasing each other around in the dirt yard. They stop to looked up as we drove by.
Our host's house is large. It is all a beautiful, light wood that we are soon to learn was chopped down by the grandfather many years before on the slopes of the mountains that looms above us. Almost every room with the exception of the bathrooms and kitchen have tatami mat floors. They are well-lived in. The kitchen wall is covered in pictures of the family's four children (One 10 year old boy, one eight year old boy, one six year old boy, and one four year old girl [the one that was afraid of us in the car]). They have arranged them so that there is a picture for each year, so that the eldest boy's string contains ten pictures and the youngest sister's contains four. Some of these pictures look to have been taken during holidays. Others are studio pictures. A few even appear to have been taken at some theme park with men dressed up as an analogue of the power rangers posing with the boy as he punches at the air.
The family is sitting in the television room, the eldest boy playing some baseball game on a console I have never seen before. Toys are scattered on the floor. Our host takes us into a back room and we see before us a kind of shrine. In the center is a framed picture of a recently deceased woman. It is haloed on its stand by a plethora of sundry objects: there are several candles, a small watermelon, an unopened beer, some packaged food whose label I cannot read. In a nearby corner are what looked to be wrapped gifts, I never learned what these were.
We then went through the ritual one by one that we would later do several times that night. We kneeled down on a cushion before the picture and taking two incense sticks in our hand, lit them. We then waved out the flame so that no light came from them any longer but they still smoked, and we placed them in a pot of sand among many other old incense sticks. Then we bowed twice, clapped twice, and then bowed a final time.
We later went through this same ritual at the neighbor's house. They all seemed very pleased that we had come, and the oldest man in the family eagerly showed us to his "shrine" (this probably is not the proper terminology, but at the minute I can think of nothing better). It was much larger since the person pictured had just recently passed away. He was all smiles as we did what we had done before in our host's house. Afterwards they gave us something to drink and had us take some fresh sashimi and tempuraed shrimp from their bountiful table. He leaned over and told us in Japanese that his brother would be very happy that foreigners had come to see him.
As good as the food was, it was not prepared for us, and after a few bites we walked back to our host's house. Their her father-in-law was setting up the barbecue. He had a bucket of turban shells (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turban_shell) and had already start to put them over the fire. His son brought out half of a large fish and placed that on the barbecue next to the shells. Suddenly our host came out with her mother-in-law and skewers of pork and shrimp, and balls of rice with pieces of fish in it were all on the fire. The children sat in tiny chairs at the edge and drank Coke. The daughter knocked her small cup over twice and the boys disappeared at intervals to play along the periphery of the circle of adults. The grandfather seemed especially pleased to have us there and quizzed us on what we thought of where we were from, what we thought of Tsushima, which of us was strongest. Had collected much of the seafood that we were eating (at least the fish and the turban shells). He laughed often and was constantly urging us to eat more. The fish may have been the best of the dishes. We ate it straight off the barbecue, each person taking a piece with their chop sticks. At intervals family members would slip off to go to one of the shrines to pray. The grandfather stayed with us though, laughing and asking questions.
Finally after the buildings around us had all but disappeared into the darkness, we were told that the big event of the night was about to commence. We walked down the street and noticed that other people also were emerging from their homes and filing in the general direction of the ocean. Fireworks were going off, their blaze shooting over the roofs of the houses. Eventually we meandered into a larger lane and saw five small boats, each probably six feet long being carried by sets of the town's men. Each boat had red, spherical lanterns hanging on it, lit from within. They bobbed and swayed as the boats were carried down the street and toward the ocean. I later learned that these boats symbolically contained the residents of the village who had died that year. For this reason they contained many articles that represented the deceased A young man went before all the boats throwing fire crackers and bottle rockets without care so that they went whizzing in all directions, making all before know of the coming of the procession of boats.
The man who had been so keen for us to visit the shrine of his older brother asked me a question which I did not understand. A few seconds later I found myself helping to carry one of the boats. I was surprised at how light it was as though I had actually expected to feel the weight of the older brother, sitting placidly, awaiting his trip out to sea.
We finally reached the port where much of the village was waiting for us. A this point the older man took the handle of the boat back for the final leg.
Amid a flurry of fireworks the five boats were towed out of the harbor by skiffs. They dwindled to points of light barely distinguishable from the oceanic darkness around. Somewhere out, framed by the infinite mystery of the dark ocean, between the endless expanse of stars and the cold dark ocean, the boat would be released to make their final departure from Earth. As we lost sight of the boats I could not help but glance over at the old man who had had us carry the boats. I wondered what he felt watching his older brother sail off into the night one final time.
Soon after, we turned and walked back into the lights of the town.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
A Half-Eaten Bento Box.
This a half-eaten bento box. The author old remembered that he wanted a picture after he had finished all the cooked spinach, a piece of fried salmon, and what he thought to be lotus root.
The Foot Onsen.
On a hill above Izuhara there is a park whose name I do not know. It looks away from the city, out eastward over the sea.
Walking to it from the road one passes through a parking lot where one is guaranteed, regardless of the season or time of day, to see someone sitting in their car smoking cigarettes. Out of curiosity, you might as you go about your business in the park, glance back occasionally to see when the smoker will finally emerge from his car and at least stroll the hundred feet to look out at the view. You would be wasting your time though because this species of park-goer will never emerge. As you leave later you will suddenly realize that the car simply disappeared at some point.
Also in the parking lot is one of the ubiquitous vending machines. It offers among other things: a handful of varieties of canned coffee, a product attractively named Pocari Sweat, a whole row of different bottled green tea varieties, canned aloe/white grape juice (with chunks of aloe), and of course the American fingerprint Coca-cola.
On a level below the parking-lot is the park itself. On its perimeter stand various metal structures whose apparent purpose is as exercise equipment. They each have little signs with a stick figure doing the appropriate exercise. Many are familiar: the push-up, sit-up. Yet there are some whose purpose is unfathomable to the Western eye, either because they seem physically impossible or because they are so easy it is hard to see how anyone might become fatigued doing them. If one is lucky they will be present when one of the park's older users is present. These geriatric wonders show up occasionally to preform amazing feats of strength and flexibility. It is possible that with their accumulated wisdom they might know how to use some of the more mysterious metal contraptions.
At the heart of the park though is a foot onsen. This a small pool, a foot and a half deep, surrounded by seats. The pool is fed by hot spring water. Sitting here one can look out at the sea beyond, and the ferry and fishing boats as they approach Izuhara port. On many days the mist is too think to see very far out. Yet there is a certain pleasure to watching the thick rolling mist glide along and pass among one, chilling the face.
Walking to it from the road one passes through a parking lot where one is guaranteed, regardless of the season or time of day, to see someone sitting in their car smoking cigarettes. Out of curiosity, you might as you go about your business in the park, glance back occasionally to see when the smoker will finally emerge from his car and at least stroll the hundred feet to look out at the view. You would be wasting your time though because this species of park-goer will never emerge. As you leave later you will suddenly realize that the car simply disappeared at some point.
Also in the parking lot is one of the ubiquitous vending machines. It offers among other things: a handful of varieties of canned coffee, a product attractively named Pocari Sweat, a whole row of different bottled green tea varieties, canned aloe/white grape juice (with chunks of aloe), and of course the American fingerprint Coca-cola.
On a level below the parking-lot is the park itself. On its perimeter stand various metal structures whose apparent purpose is as exercise equipment. They each have little signs with a stick figure doing the appropriate exercise. Many are familiar: the push-up, sit-up. Yet there are some whose purpose is unfathomable to the Western eye, either because they seem physically impossible or because they are so easy it is hard to see how anyone might become fatigued doing them. If one is lucky they will be present when one of the park's older users is present. These geriatric wonders show up occasionally to preform amazing feats of strength and flexibility. It is possible that with their accumulated wisdom they might know how to use some of the more mysterious metal contraptions.
At the heart of the park though is a foot onsen. This a small pool, a foot and a half deep, surrounded by seats. The pool is fed by hot spring water. Sitting here one can look out at the sea beyond, and the ferry and fishing boats as they approach Izuhara port. On many days the mist is too think to see very far out. Yet there is a certain pleasure to watching the thick rolling mist glide along and pass among one, chilling the face.
The Matsuri Parade.
These are pictures taken at a matsuri (festival) in Izuhara. The celebrations are held in honor of the friendship between Korea and Tsushima. The clothing worn by the marchers (and dancers, trumpeters, and sedan chair sitters) is traditional Korean.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Snorkeling.
We decide to run barefoot down the road that leads away from the beach and out to the point. We underestimate the heat and even now I can feel the burns on the bottom of my feet from the sun scorched concrete. Yet it gave us initiative when we came to the jumping off point. Between the two bays runs a road of concrete at the top of a sea-wall. At most places there are rocks below this, but about 3/8ths around there is a spot where the water below the wall is over fifteen feet deep. We stop here and hoist ourselves over the burning imitation wood railing. I follow ---,... waiting the second that it takes for my body to connect with the water which was fifteen feet below but now has approached predictably quickly.
* * *
There is no shock though, no cold slap. The water is the temperature that all water should be for a summer swim. Applying the snorkel gear that we had dangled haphazardly as we ran down the road, we turn our eyes to the world below our feet. What looked like only crude, ever-changing brush strokes of greens and blues and browns from the railing above, has materialized with almost a frightening belligerence into a truly three-dimensional world, full of detail. Here are shifting sea weeds. There is a stadium of massive black urchins lined up in the nooks of the rocks at the base of the wall. Further along are two large mullet, gulping at the water as they swim nervously along.
* * *
We swim further out and now the bottom is far below and sandy. Gone are the schools of fish. Our only companions out here are the tidbits of sea weed that drift about sun-drenched near the surface. ----- sees a tan triangle resting on the bottom. Swimming down he brings up in his hand a trigger fish that had been enjoying an afternoon nap. I think it to be sick but as I release it from my hand it vigorously swims downward again.
* * *
We swim all the way across the outside of the bay until we are again against the rock. Here we see christmas tree worms with their florid, polychrome plumes. Further along is a turban shell that has eluded the local divers. Between waves we climb up out onto the rocks, careful not to step on urchins and the sharp goose barnacles (the Japanese call them turtle's feet). Laying on the damp rocks I let the salt slowly crystalize on my face. It will soon be time to slip back in and swim to the bay, passing over the reef and into the uncomfortably hot water inside, through the many playing children and back to the beach.
* * *
There is no shock though, no cold slap. The water is the temperature that all water should be for a summer swim. Applying the snorkel gear that we had dangled haphazardly as we ran down the road, we turn our eyes to the world below our feet. What looked like only crude, ever-changing brush strokes of greens and blues and browns from the railing above, has materialized with almost a frightening belligerence into a truly three-dimensional world, full of detail. Here are shifting sea weeds. There is a stadium of massive black urchins lined up in the nooks of the rocks at the base of the wall. Further along are two large mullet, gulping at the water as they swim nervously along.
* * *
We swim further out and now the bottom is far below and sandy. Gone are the schools of fish. Our only companions out here are the tidbits of sea weed that drift about sun-drenched near the surface. ----- sees a tan triangle resting on the bottom. Swimming down he brings up in his hand a trigger fish that had been enjoying an afternoon nap. I think it to be sick but as I release it from my hand it vigorously swims downward again.
* * *
We swim all the way across the outside of the bay until we are again against the rock. Here we see christmas tree worms with their florid, polychrome plumes. Further along is a turban shell that has eluded the local divers. Between waves we climb up out onto the rocks, careful not to step on urchins and the sharp goose barnacles (the Japanese call them turtle's feet). Laying on the damp rocks I let the salt slowly crystalize on my face. It will soon be time to slip back in and swim to the bay, passing over the reef and into the uncomfortably hot water inside, through the many playing children and back to the beach.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Karate Weight Lifting.
A friend took me to lift weights with one of the local karate groups. Entering the warehouse where they kept their weights I found seven young men. They varied in from sixteen to twenty-eight. While most of them were shorter then me, they all without exception had arms thicker than my own. The biggest and oldest was their leader. He directed them in their training while he sat near the door smoking a cigarette. Every so often he would come out and arm-wrestle one of the younger boys. The bout would begin with him holding his opponents arm vertical, letting them strain against him. Then he would ever so slightly allow his arm to be forced down. When it seemed as though he would soon lose, he would slam his opponent's arm back and walk away victorious. The second half of the training session found him engaged with another man his own age who was training to win the local arm wrestling championship. Despite his aloof manner, he seemed a decent enough fellow.
Arm-wrestling is big in Tsushima. The group that I trained with had a special arm wrestling table that they had ordered off the internet. Most of the young men who are not in high school are fishermen. This explains the fact that a fair number of them have forearms that are very nearly as thick as their biceps.
Arm-wrestling is big in Tsushima. The group that I trained with had a special arm wrestling table that they had ordered off the internet. Most of the young men who are not in high school are fishermen. This explains the fact that a fair number of them have forearms that are very nearly as thick as their biceps.
The Drone.
Tsushima is loud. Not loud with the sounds of humans (though they do play a saccharine tune followed by the morning town announcements on a loud-speaker at 8:00am), but loud with the sound of insects. A general hum pervades the air anywhere near a patch of forest. Clicks and buzzes, some cutting out, others beginning. Thousands of insects vying to make their voices heard in the humid air. Some are doubtless the calls cicadas; the island is home to a plethora of species. Yet there are strange voices too. Whines and taps. As one falls asleep, these thousand different sounds mingle together as the consciousness relaxes control of it's power to differentiate sound. The frequencies (which seems to span the spectrum of sound) merge into one full note as sleep overtakes one.
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