I am a
dreamer: What could be more antithetical
in a materialistic society than a dreamer, a poet, who would much rather sit on
a stone bench in the mild sun and write words no one will eve read? Once again I have
purchased a small Japanese notebook at the Kinokuniya
Stationery & Gift Shop in Japantown. Two years ago I bought a similar notebook, on
a dreary, rainy day and sat in the Tan-Tan coffee shop
and wrote. But
there is now a no smoking policy at the Tan-Tan, so I am outside, under this
warm, blessing sun smoking and writing.
The poet is ever the fool because he is impractical. Being unemployed, I should be out looking for
a job. But I
prefer to sit and pretend I am a rich man, a man of leisure, a man of letters,
a man freed from the mundane care of the work-a-day world. Why not? Working is a curse for one such as myself. I deserve the
beauty and freedom of this March day, St/ Patrick's Day. It is said that St. Patrick drover out all of
the snakes in Ireland. I don't know if
that's so; so
much about St. Patrick islegend. Nevertheless, in the spirit of the saint, I
now drive out all snakes, devils, demons, unwholesome spirits, which would keep
this poet in the shackles of the humdrum world of eight to five. Blessed St. Patrick, save me fro jobs, bosses
and the serfdom of work. Amen. I like Japantown
because it is as close 6o Japan proper as I can get. Of all the countries I've
been to, Japan left the deepest impression on me. It is unfortunate that I have not the means
to travel thither and sit under the spring sun in, say, Ueno Park and write in
this note book.
I always remember my first morning in Japan, twenty years or so ago, I was staying at a
tourist hotel by Ueno Park; I had arrrived at Haneda airport
sometime after midnight. By the time I
cleared customs and immigration agents and got on the train to Toky9, it was well after three a.m.
Once at my hotel, I took a soothing Japanese bath. So there I was at last in bed but I could not
sleep. I rolled over first on one side
then the other. Jet
lag. No matter how many sheep I
counted, I could not sleep. I got out of
bed, dressed and went for a walk; that's when I discovered Ueno
Park. I remembered reading that a battle
had once been fought at Ueno, a rather bloody one at that; but that particular morning there was
nothing to remind one of that battle of long ago. A mist hung in the air. I didn't mind. Mists and poets are compatible. As I walked in the park with no paticular thought on my mind, I heard music! I stopped and listened: It was the sound of a solo shakuhjachi, a bamboo flute. I stood in place enchanted by the music of
the unseen falutist.
I walked in the direction of the dulcet sound. A wind sprang up and parted the mist; and there by the
lake, on a large, rounded stone, sat the shakuhachi
master, an old man. He turned at my
approach; our
eyes met; he nodded his head in
recognition of my presence; I bowed my
first Japanese bow to him. I always felt
that that first time I participated in Japanese culture was my bow to the old shakuhachi master.
That simple act of courtesy meant a great deal to me. That first bow to the flute master meant
something more than merely a learned social gesture, for I truly was giving
homage to the man who gave me (unknowingly) a great gift of welcome to a
stranger. He played on for a few minutes
more, then he stopped. I remember him
putting his flute in a case, then he stepped down to
the ground. He looked at me. I said to him in English, "Thank
you." He smiled, said something to
me in Japanese, then together we bowed a deep bow to eachother. He went his way; I stayed. I sat on the rock. It was still warm from his body. I smoked a cigarette and watched the mist
dissipate. Soon people were about. The magic was gone. I made my way back to my hotel and had
breakfast.
{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from
original MS Word document}
*
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of my life
with this woman.
But she is now gone.
She left lsast night and
by this time is
three thousand
miles