OK, a little writing. I think I've played enough Ghost Recon for tonight. Greg told me about all these secret weapons, so now... well, anyway. I'll save the geek talk for later. So, Heidi had a good trip, but we were sick for much of it. Boo. Some highlights:

Koya-san. Hmm... kinda like a mini buddhist vatican. It's the seat of a still very popular sect of buddhism, tucked high in the mountains, as you would expect a seat of a buddhist sect to be.

You know what? I suddenly feel like writing, so this is going to be a long entry. Just to let you know.

So just getting sick, the day is a rainy one and it's around 12 or so when we get on the train that goes through Osaka. But it could have been any time because that's how the light is. Meaningless. Sourceless. We travel in the same seats and watch the people get on and off and then off and off until only a few remain. But the train becomes crowded instead by the trees and the clouds; we going up to meet them.

Koya-san is in the center of eight mountain peaks, the last stop is at their base. To get to the town itself from the train you take an old cable car, which carries you up the mountain like an old woman with a kink in her back. The car is built on an angle to match the hill, and as one goes up, the other descends. Like the pendulum weights on an old clock. The only thing to be seen through the windows is the dense fog and your reflection. The view doesn't change on the bus into town. The whole thing becomes unreal. Nearly the only ones on this cable car going up into nothing, and now the only people on this bus driving through an old town deserted. The bus driver finally just asks us where we want to go.

Where we want to go is a monastery, one of hundreds in Koya-san. A small number compared to the thousands that existed there until the Tokugawa shogunate put the kabash on their little shangri-la in the 17th century. This monastery we will spend the night at, and I guess it's like a ryo-kan, but I wouldn't know, because I've never stayed in one of those either.

In through the gate we hobble like contestants in a potato sack race, bound by our single small umbrella. Outside a temple dog lies in the rain. The place looks old and feels cold, but also peaceful and harboring. Not in a crackly-fire way. Quiet. After we check in we are shown our room. The halls are dark and they creak with age. Everything is wood and paper and everything sits low. Through the windows we see gardens in fall color, a wilderness in miniature made somehow larger by the rain and clouds. Our room is a bare cube. In the center is a square table. We sit down and drink some tea.

That night after a delicious meal, I sat and wondered at the geometry of the place. Squares within squares. Everything paced and modulated. Everything even and modular. It gave me a sense of rest and comfort. Even the beds were placed in the center of the room, on mats that intersected to make equal lengths. Architecture not only reveals the character of its creators, but it structures the characters of its participants.

This compartmental thinking is everywhere in Japanese culture, now that I think of it, perhaps even central. The game of Go, which we played there in that square room, is a game of intersecting lines that make squares. The object is to make compartments of territory. More than a game, however, it was considered to be a kind of model of the universe.

Japanese values might be said to be compartmental as well, with no overarching moral authority, but right and wrong being decided case by case. Japanese religion as well, where shinto and buddhism coexist side by side with each having its own function and appropriate time.

The dog barks late at night.

(more next time)