Rene Magritte - "The Art of Conversation"

I’ve noticed an irritating trend in social discourse, and it’s one which seems to get worse the closer your interlocutor is to you in terms of friendship.

First, let’s look at what’s supposed to happen when you meet up with your pal according to the norms of social convention.

Greetings are exchanged, followed by the negotiation of a topic for discussion, after which the dialogue unfolds as a series of turns in which each partaker is alternately speaking then listening. It’s a reciprocal exchange in which points are made, then gaps are left open for responses. In short, it is a two-way democratic process consisting ideally in equal measures of expressing one’s opinion and listening and responding to the opinions of others.

Well, so much for the ideal blueprint for a good chinwag: here’s what usually happens when I try to converse with my Western male friends.

In the following reconstruction, I, the Central Scutinizer, will be represented by the initials ‘CS.’ My interlocutor, an amalgam of said friends and acquaintances, is represented by ‘SB‘, which stands for ‘selfish bastard.’

CS: [tries to open with a greeting, but is blocked by SB who...]
SB: [...launches into long monologue about whatever bee he has in his bonnet, without preliminary greeting or negotiation of topic; does not pause to allow for comments]
CS: [attempts to join conversation with salient point]
SB: [ignores CS's attempt and continues monologue]
CS: [irritated by SB's ill-mannered behaviour tries to derail monologue with witty aside or stupid joke]
SB: [ignores everything and proceeds with monologue; is apparently unconcerned whether CS is interested or has opinions on it]
CS: [by now very pissed off, resolves to barge in aggressively, finally getting a chance to speak. He changes the subject out of spite]
SB : [doesn't even bother to feign interest in new subject or even hide the fact that he is not listening]
CS: [notices this, gets even angrier and resolves to likewise ignore everything SB says]

At this point the conversation breaks down into a kind of shouting match with neither side listening to the other: they might as well be in different rooms.

Well, comedy aside, that is pretty much how conversations go with the vast majority of my Western male friends, and I’m sick of it.

Having a nice chat with a mate just becomes an ugly stressful clash of egos, and should one dare to add more people in to the mix, well, it just gets exponentially worse. Strangely enough, on one such occasion I pointed out to my two acquaintances that nobody was taking a blind bit of notice of what the others were saying, and that we were in reality holding three entirely separate conversations, a fact they indicated they were both conscious of, and yet were not bothered by in the least.

So what’s the cause of all this? Is this rudeness the norm, is it some weird anomaly among ex-patriots, or do I just have an unusually selfish group of friends?

One idea might be that these blokes, living and working in a foreign country with a foreign spouse or partner, get so used to speaking in a kind of reduced idiom that when they get together with their compatriots all those pent-up torrents of native speech burst their banks and come gushing forth, washing away the norms of discourse.

It’s interesting to note that Western females don’t seem to be afflicted with this tedious malady. Neither are the Japanese, who are generally good at turn-taking in conversation (or perhaps it is just their often limited grasp of the language that holds them in check?).

A final observation: I actually find chatting via text message preferable in many cases to actually meeting face to face with these conversation killers, since the very nature of the electronic medium imposes the turn-taking structure that is vital in any meaningful dialogue.

What a sad thing to have to admit.

Funny how the Japanese media was all over the outbreak of swine influenza a few weeks ago.

Citizens were scurrying about like cockroaches to buy up face masks, which is rather akin to carrying posies to ward off bubonic plague, such is their efficacy (nearly useless at protecting you, but may help to stop you spreading it, but if you’ve got it, you should be at home anyway).

Even the rebellious youth were masked up last month...

So there we were, all set to die, just like the SARS thing from a few years back. I even succumbed myself (to the panic, not the lurgee). I got a fever one evening a week after having visited infested Osaka, and in my delirium I had visions of the local apes pummelling me to death as I was proclaimed Hiroshima’s first nu-flu case. I mean, look what happened to Tokyo’s Koreans shortly after the 1923 Kanto earthquake.

And then suddenly it was gone from the media. No more banner headlines, no more tallies of the sick on the evening news, and everyone stops talking about it. Even when the WHO declares it a level 6 pandemic, nobody bats an eyelid. It’s not as if it’s gone away – numbers of cases are still on the increase – it just shows once again the power of the media in creating a panic.

17th century anti-plague masks: about as effective as today's ones

And now everyone relaxes, believing it to be over, which is far from the case, although clearly this strain is weaker than good ol’ seasonal flu.

Students in classrooms once more hack and cough with impunity, forgetting to cover their maws.

No doubt the good people of Osaka are no longer quickly donning masks when sitting in proximity to stinking unclean barbarians on public transport (as experienced by your humble author); rather they will just go back to standard Japanese procedure of avoiding to sit next to a gaijin unless it is the last seat in the carriage.

A gaijin simulacrum - about as close as most Japanese want to get to a foreigner, apparently

Perhaps similarly if our media stopped telling us every day that we were in a terrible recession we’d all forget that we were, and go back to our customary profligate defrayment, thereby actually pulling ourselves out of our economic malaise.

Peter F. Hamilton - "The Dreaming Void"

PETER F. HAMILTON – “THE DREAMING VOID” (2007)

After returning to the world of science fiction a couple of years ago with Hamilton’s ‘Pandora’s Star,‘ and been very favourably impressed, I was pleased to discover that he had already come out with the first in a new trilogy set in the same highly intriguing future environment.

Again, epic action across the vastness of the galaxy, ‘The Dreaming Void‘ features Hamilton’s trademark myriad seemingly disparate threads making for a story line that is compelling, challenging, and just a little hard to keep track of sometimes. I trust him, though – for while nobody will be giving him any awards for the quality of his prose, Hamilton is a superb story-teller who can juggle multiple sets of characters and have them all neatly tied up by the end.

The impeccably attired Mr.Hamilton

This time out, the new threat to the galaxy is a strange area of dense stars known as ‘The Void‘, which houses some dark secret championed by a growing religious movement and fed by the strange dreams channelled through a couple of ordinary humans. The believers aim to send a pilgrimage into this void, a move which many think will trigger an encroachment phase resulting in the destruction of the galaxy.

Set amid this apocalyptic doom is the usual assortment of factions and their internecine feuds, imbued with the author’s potent and seemingly plausible visions of humanity’s technological future.

In short, a highly entertaining read for those in need of escapism, and while the book may lack some of the freshness of the previous outing, it more than makes up for it in one sub-plot which is nothing less than fully-fledged fantasy a la Robert Jordan, David Eddings and Raymond Feist.

More book reviews can be found here

MICHIO KAKU – “PHYSICS OF THE IMPOSSIBLE” (2008)

Michio Kaku is a leading researcher in string theory who modestly states that he entered the field with the avowed desire to bring together the two disparate halves of physics, the macro and the micro, a task which Einstein had fruitlessly laboured at for thirty years.

Here he drags himself down to our level and takes us through an entertaining and enlightening look at such science fiction perennials as teleportation, faster than light travel and visiting the past.

He groups them into three categories: those which are just around the corner, those which are possible, but not likely to be achieved in the near future, and those which are plainly contrary to the laws of physics and hence never likely to be realised.

Michio Kaku - note attempts at 'wild' Einsteinian hair...

Surprisingly, the last category is fairly empty, and the book is full of eye-opening discussions which reveal just how far science has advanced in the last century.

Easy to read (the book is replete with numerous Star Trek allusions), the concepts presented were only occasionally beyond this reader’s grasp, Kaku doing a generally excellent job of bringing sometimes extremely difficult ideas within the reach of the layperson.

The only fault I could find with “Physics of the Impossible” was the author’s occasional inaccuracy with regard to matters outside his realm of expertise, a case in point being his mention of the Book of Revelations, by which he probably meant the Book of Revelation, singular. A small point, but this was not the only instance of what might be regarded as sloppiness, a trait not desirable in a scientist.

You can find more of my book reviews here.

Yes, about two months too late, but hey, it’s a long and tedious job to crop, resize and upload a ton of photos.

Click here to see ninety glorious digital photos of my (quite) recent trip to Hokkaido.

Here’s a couple of samples to tempt you…

Kyoto – been there so many times and even lived there for three months back in 1997, you’d think I’d seen everything this gem of a city has to offer, but no.

Sunday’s jaunt around the north-eastern sector had revealed another batch of treasures, and I wondered if I could do it again.

Initially I’d planned on staying in Osaka all day, since rain was forecast, but hey, a drop of precipitation works wonders on bringing out the verdant greens of temple gardens, and I needed to wash away the foul stain of Kobe from my memory. (It wasn’t really that bad, but hey, I like to get all hyperbolic once in a while).

Biwako, Shiga Prefecture. Miidera is in the bottom left corner...

So, on a sudden inspiration based on half-remembered history, I decided to head out to Otsu, a small town on the shores of Biwako, Japan’s biggest lake.

Otsu is home to Miidera, one of the largest temple complexes in the land, but a little off the beaten track, so largely muppet-free.

Well, what a convoluted journey to get there! To illustrate my dedication to attaining temple chill-out, I’m going to outline my route in full.

Hotel (subway) -> Osaka Station (train) -> Kyoto Station (subway) -> Karasuma Oike (subway) -> Sanjo Keihan (train) -> Hamaotsu (train) -> Miidera.

Miidera, Otsu

Well, it was worth it. Miidera is a sprawling suite of temple buildings spread over the lower slopes of Mt.Hieizan, full of blooming flowers and a wide variety of pines and maples. The gardens are, in fact, the main draw as far as I’m concerned, and only a smattering of gawpers were there to share it with me.

Miidera has an interesting and violent history seemingly at odds with Buddhist pacificism, but I suppose everyone has to let off steam from time to time.

Up on top of Mt.Hieizan lies Enryakuji, a more famous rival temple. Initially branches of the same sect, they split acrimoniously and then spent most of the 16th and 17th centuries sending out bands of warrior monks to beat the crap out of their foes, both temple complexes being burnt down in the process several times.

Pagoda behind maples at Miidera

One can only assume than Miidera had a serious disadvantage in this spat in that their monks were almost certainly too shagged out to fight once they’d climbed all the way up to Enryakuji.

The only thing to disturb the peace now (aside from the occasional screaming brat or loud-voiced Old Git) is the honking of the peacocks who strut about in an enclosure at the back.

Once, long ago, the Japanese had a wonderful sense of aesthetics...

All things must balance out according to the physical laws of the universe, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when after the sublime hours of tranquility spent at Miidera, I found myself in Holly’s Café in downtown Kyoto.

Not my first choice of watering hole, but it was by now raining and there were no other options. Imagine it: crammed to the gills with smoking screeching slags and their rat-faced beaux, the entire place reeking of human ordure due to a blocked toilet. And the coffee was shit, too!!

Holly's Cafe, Shijo Kawaramachi, Kyoto - screeching slags and stench of blocked toilets mercifully absent...

No matter, a man who has been to Miidera has accumulated enough chill to rise above the trials of bad plumbing and rejects from an Ill-conceived national education system.

Let's look at those old aesthetics again to cleanse us...

The city of Kobe holds a fascination for your Japanese domestic traveller – it’s exotic, they think, romantic even, due to it’s cosmopolitan past.

I’ve never liked it, but then again the only times I’ve been there I’ve not had a guidebook and hence not done and seen all there is to do and see.

I’d been down to the harbour, where there’s some big wheel thingy and an old ship, seen the unimpressive Chinatown and walked along the lengthy generic shopping mall and not been wowed at all.

Down at the docks in Kobe, August 2006

So I thought I’d give it a go again, this time with a view to checking out the areas of European housing, going to the extensive botanical gardens up in the hills and then topping it off with a ride up the cable car to Rokko mountain to see the great night panorama.

Sadly I must report that I did not fulfil my mission, and my previous opinion of the place still holds, albeit marginally ameliorated.

See, the botanical gardens turned out to be served by about two buses a day, the last one coming back 3 minutes after getting there, so that was out.

Next, the European area. Meandering around the steep slopes on a muggy day was only pleasurable when the masses could be avoided down non-famous back streets.

Kobe's Euro Bit

A quaint area indeed, but a jostling sweaty hike to look at fairly unremarkable Western structures each of which had been turned into some tacky clichéd idea of gaijin-ness such as Sherlock Holmes and Vikings? No, no, no.

Kitsch 'n' Comedy in Kobe's Euro Quarter

On the way up, one street had been pedestrianised and bedecked with large pictures made of flower petals, which was very nice indeed, were it not for the sonic abortion perpetrated by a couple of middle-aged gaijin buskers who ‘treated’ us to The Eagles ‘Take it Easy’ followed by that strong contender for ‘Worst Song of All Time,’ Mr.Big’s ‘To Be With You.’

The real crime here was that both gentlemen were very talented, so I wondered how it was that such gifted folk end up acting out a charade for the muppets as a living.

Petal 'n' veg art in Kobe - shite music thankfully inaudible...

And then it dawned on me that I’m doing exactly the same!

By now the thought of killing a few more hours (and brain cells), then attempting the convoluted combination of infrequent buses, trains, trams and cable cars to get up the mountain for fabled night view, was all too much, so I headed back to Osaka, wishing I’d spent the day in Kyoto instead.

Old hags on the bus - or weathered effigies at Kyoto's Sekizanzen-in?

Yesterday after completing a tour of four criminally underrated (and therefore mercifully near-empty) temples in Kyoto* I made the mistake of eschewing the Eizan and Keihan private railways that had got me there, and instead opted for the number 5 bus.

Now this bus, in returning to central Kyoto, passes by a number of well-known ‘attractions‘ that the muppets all frequent because their guide books tell them to.

And so suddenly the bus is awash with the great unwashed (élitist, moi?), and I find a disgusting old trollop pushing against me in my seat, trying to unsettle me into giving up my perch.

Look! Fat bastards get reserved seats in Japan! Woot!

But no, madam, I carefully chose a regular seat, not one of those reserved for crones, so I found myself under no obligation to gallantly render up my place. See, the obnoxious behaviour of this garlic-breathing hag just made me even more determined not to yield.

And then, just in time to assuage a residual of guilt, I remembered a conversation I had had with a doctor acquaintance of mine.

Apparently post-menopausal women’s changes in body chemistry mean that their bones begin to suffer from a lack of calcium which in turn leads to our old friend Arthur Rightus.

Now here’s the point : a sedentary lifestyle actually accentuates this state, hence it is vital for old biddies to be active and on their feet, for walking and standing promotes the maintenance of healthy bones.

Get up, you old bags, it's for you're own good!

So there you go, next time a malodorous horrifically attired bag attempts to intimidate you out of your bus or train seat, just tell ‘em it’s for their own good to remain standing, but could they please do it elsewhere because kimchi-breath is offensive.

(*Sakizanzen-in, Manshu-in, Enkoji and Shisen-do)

A great example of the “Japanese Way of Things” happened today at Manshu-in temple in north-eastern Kyoto.

As I walked through the cool hallways glancing at fancy paintings on gold screens I noticed the ‘No Photograph‘ signs displayed here and there in that inimitable Japanese fashion whereby the very instrument reminding one of the rules of social harmony itself destroys it.

So, no pictures, well that seems reasonable when we are dealing with Old Historic Bits. However, I next get to the veranda before Manshu-in’s most splendid garden and notice several of old gits snapping away at the verdant scene in front of them.

The bit of Manshuin outside the gate where the photo-police can't get you...

Now surely we can take pictures of the garden?

Being a polite chap, instead of just blazing away like my fellow tourists, I ask a nearby attendant in my best Nihongo.

She proceeds to gush forth about how I must have seen the signs, and how photographs have damaged the priceless Old Bits. I tell her I mean the garden, not the inside. No photos, she says. I point out to her the other folks on the veranda merrily shooting away. No photos, she reiterates, and disappears, without any attempt to acknowledge, let alone terminate, the illicit snapping going on right before her blinkered eyes.

Head -> brick wall.

Old fire engine, shortly before being set alight by digital cameras

Every year I exit Hiroshima during the ‘Golden Week‘ holidays of early May to escape the foul artificial frivolity of said city’s Flower Festival.

This is where a huge swathe of central Hiroshima becomes a hellish cacophonous mass of screaming infantage while their over-indulgent parents are cajoled by minor mafia members into buying overpriced and unhygienic blobs on sticks for sustenance. Some floats go by, filled with either old crones or tiny girls attempting to perform in the dance medium of their respective eras. Nobody cares.

Oh, so wrong, so horribly wrong...

So, here I am, freshly arrived in Osaka for a 4 night stay, and what an amazing contrast! The streets are lined with poplar trees, bluebirds sing and not a soul impedes my pedestrian’s progress through the thoroughfares of Umeda, the northern hub of Osaka.

Alright, so that’s not strictly true. In fact, it’s just as much a crowded noise-filled hell-hole as Hiroshima, perhaps even more so, but at least it’s alien and anonymous. The fact that it’s not Hiroshima is an attraction in itself.

And here’s a charming little first observation from this non-Hiroshiman conurbation.

Ever seen toilet paper in public lavatories with adverts printed on it? Me neither, but that’s just what I found in Umeda’s ‘Ing‘ department store.

Osaka's Umeda area - there's a department store called 'ing' in there somewhere...

That’s right, as I pulled off a few sheets with which to clean the appliance in a pre-defecation anti-swine flu manouver, I gasped to discover some commercial slogans emblazoned upon the poo-paper in bright red ink.

Hmm…how to feel about this latest corporate act of shame? Be outraged that the free market has penetrated one of the last bastions of privacy? Or just laugh at the thought of reeking bodily effluent defacing company logos in a gloriously appropriate fashion?

Poo-paper fresh from Osaka