|Good Ink, Fukuoka.|
Words can do a disservice to the actual. Our need to describe beautiful things can rob them of their beauty.
|Sad Cookie Box.|
I won't do my experience the disservice of description.
I won't endeavor to put into words the tenderness I felt for a trio of monks as they quietly swept spent ginkgo leaves into a pile at some Kyoto temple.
I won't sully with syllables the rush of the marvelous that I felt seeing how a single well placed chopstick can take a cascade of hair spilling across a porcelain shoulder and turn it into an exquisite black whirlpool that rests atop a head like a finely woven nest.
Suffice it to say it is indescribably beautiful.
Is it not strange that on the last train on a Friday night on the Yamanote line a man can drunkenly stagger into a crowded train, vomit, step back onto the platform before the doors can close forcing the crush of humanity to be forced to stand on the fresh spew in that impossibly confined space for as many stops as it takes to get them to their destination and nobody says anything.
|Busiest Intersection on Earth.|
Is it not strange that during the cold season sometimes 30% of our audience were wearing surgical masks.
|Beware of Kappa.|
|A flower amongst the ruins.|
And the reason nobody bumps is that Japanese culture comes replete with a fundamental sense of Ma.
|When Robert Rauchenberg erased a de Kooning he was playing with Ma.|
|Mixed messages in Miyajima.|