Temples of the Mind
Kyoto station is not far off. Trains pass between buildings, unseen in the darkness. They enter and leave the city with only the sound of rattling tracks over the rooftops. I find it strange that I haven’t put pen to paper this trip – not once, although I’ve thought about it. Tired, I’m drifting off. I’m drifting off with those trains and their timetable rhythm – somewhere between arrival and departure.
Immersed in the piping hot water of this rooftop bath, where steam mixes with cool air and the contained walls open out to the night sky, this is a reflective space in an always intense trip. Businessmen, travellers, holiday makers, all come and go. But I remain. I’m drifting off, guided by the night and water, the fresh air and the rising steam.
I can’t write of Kyoto – not now at least. Instead I turn to Tomono-Ura, in a sort of Proustian transfer, where memory and imagination hold all the power. It couldn’t have been more than a year ago, walking through the town. A fishing village whose old backstreets twisted around and we lost ourselves among the old houses and shops that lined the way. It was quaint – but it was quaint without being false. Tomono-Ura seemed so simple when everything about us was so complex. The harbour was the truth of the town; a long concrete slab jutting out into the sea, catching bits of rubbish and debris and giving the water an oily sheen. During the day boats were docked to it silently. Then one morning, waking early, I walked along to see it a flurry of activity as tarpaulin covered the harbour and boats arrived to quickly unload the day’s catch. There was the sound of approaching motors and the dull thud of boats against the dock, there was the buzz of aerators and coolers, swinging ropes, sea splash and fish bouncing and flapping in their tanks, waiting to be picked out by arriving customers. The fresh smell of the sea hung in the air that morning.
The sea is calm there. A group of dusty islands not too far out, block passage to the open ocean, giving a stillness to the waters around the town. The view out from the local temple - the highest point of the town - held a subtle power. From the back of the main hall, tadami floor mats led to the frame of a delicate sliding window that offered a cropped the view of the horizon, highlighting the sea and islands. Waiting inside, among the inner rooms was an aged priest. He stumbled out, half-blind and half-deaf, excited to see visitors and opened a glass case containing the historic medical instruments of von Siebold. Among them were a globe and a pair of scales and a test tube, all relating to the origins of western medicine in Japan. Then, with one over-frantic swing of the arm the historic pieces were scattered across the glass case, only for the priest to pick them up and begin talking as if nothing had happened.
The sea is calm here and in Tomono-Ura, sitting in a rooftop bath at night, distinctions disappear. I look over the sea, silent and dark. The islands, in their own darkness, are barely visible against the night sky, only announced by the dull lights along their coasts. Farther out, across the bay, is a gasworks – something I hadn’t seen in the daylight. Powerful lights illuminate the complex of pipes and towers. A stack, high above, belches out flames into the night. The industrial and the natural, from the islands and sea to the gasworks and harbour, from the distant flickering fire and rising steam of the bath, to the night sky and cool air, seem to move together as contrasts that no longer contrast, offering a fleeting glimpse of perfection on this quiet night in a silent town (The only sound comes from the odd car on the street below). This is all only a moment, but it leaves a lasting trace. I will leave this town soon but this night and this sea, the cool air and steam will remain. That vision, the dark waters and the gasworks, the islands and the stars, will remain. I’m in Kyoto now, but I’m thinking of Tomono-Ura.
Immersed in the piping hot water of this rooftop bath, where steam mixes with cool air and the contained walls open out to the night sky, this is a reflective space in an always intense trip. Businessmen, travellers, holiday makers, all come and go. But I remain. I’m drifting off, guided by the night and water, the fresh air and the rising steam.
I can’t write of Kyoto – not now at least. Instead I turn to Tomono-Ura, in a sort of Proustian transfer, where memory and imagination hold all the power. It couldn’t have been more than a year ago, walking through the town. A fishing village whose old backstreets twisted around and we lost ourselves among the old houses and shops that lined the way. It was quaint – but it was quaint without being false. Tomono-Ura seemed so simple when everything about us was so complex. The harbour was the truth of the town; a long concrete slab jutting out into the sea, catching bits of rubbish and debris and giving the water an oily sheen. During the day boats were docked to it silently. Then one morning, waking early, I walked along to see it a flurry of activity as tarpaulin covered the harbour and boats arrived to quickly unload the day’s catch. There was the sound of approaching motors and the dull thud of boats against the dock, there was the buzz of aerators and coolers, swinging ropes, sea splash and fish bouncing and flapping in their tanks, waiting to be picked out by arriving customers. The fresh smell of the sea hung in the air that morning.
The sea is calm there. A group of dusty islands not too far out, block passage to the open ocean, giving a stillness to the waters around the town. The view out from the local temple - the highest point of the town - held a subtle power. From the back of the main hall, tadami floor mats led to the frame of a delicate sliding window that offered a cropped the view of the horizon, highlighting the sea and islands. Waiting inside, among the inner rooms was an aged priest. He stumbled out, half-blind and half-deaf, excited to see visitors and opened a glass case containing the historic medical instruments of von Siebold. Among them were a globe and a pair of scales and a test tube, all relating to the origins of western medicine in Japan. Then, with one over-frantic swing of the arm the historic pieces were scattered across the glass case, only for the priest to pick them up and begin talking as if nothing had happened.
The sea is calm here and in Tomono-Ura, sitting in a rooftop bath at night, distinctions disappear. I look over the sea, silent and dark. The islands, in their own darkness, are barely visible against the night sky, only announced by the dull lights along their coasts. Farther out, across the bay, is a gasworks – something I hadn’t seen in the daylight. Powerful lights illuminate the complex of pipes and towers. A stack, high above, belches out flames into the night. The industrial and the natural, from the islands and sea to the gasworks and harbour, from the distant flickering fire and rising steam of the bath, to the night sky and cool air, seem to move together as contrasts that no longer contrast, offering a fleeting glimpse of perfection on this quiet night in a silent town (The only sound comes from the odd car on the street below). This is all only a moment, but it leaves a lasting trace. I will leave this town soon but this night and this sea, the cool air and steam will remain. That vision, the dark waters and the gasworks, the islands and the stars, will remain. I’m in Kyoto now, but I’m thinking of Tomono-Ura.
posted by Rainey at 4:08 PM
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