Myself and my mate Steve-O were real drunk off Chu-hi and wandering around in the bright flouresent lights of Kyoto when we came upon this young girl crying uncontrolably at the train depot. So I bought her a box of chocolate filled bear shaped cookies and give her a little hug. She prolly thought me a touch cracked but, nonetheless, smiled a little through tears.
This photo is of me screening some dirt, looking for long gone evidence of long gone people.
This is JoAnne, a long time India traveller and now Afracanis Archaeologist. She rocked me throughly.....she matched me joke for joke, raunchy story for raunchy story, traveller tale for traveller tale and made me an admirrer. It is real beautiful when one comes upon a person whose very presence strums one's inner chords into feeling purely marvelous. Her influence had a drastic effect upon me.....the results of which remain to be crystallized. Back to Asia!
Joanne inspecting an artifact just prior to going on a diatribe about all the particulars of how it was made. Just listening to her speak casually was tantamont to an event. In fact, this woman is a walking, talking, drinking, joking event.....and damn, am I ever in love with her
These are Photos from an Archaeological excavation in Orange County, NY that I was on earlier in the season. The photos were from a newspaper article in the Times Herald-Record, who did a story on us.
More photographs on: http://waderucksackphotos.blogspot.com/
Getting ready to send out my passport to get my Chinese (X) visa. Another $150 hahaha. I am not anywhere near a Chinese embassy or consulate so I need to hire a courier to take my passport to get it stamped. I never seem to be able to do this with enough time before splitting so as not to neccesitate getting it rushed.....which means that I need to pay a whole lot more for express service. Oh, well. The way it goes, the way it goes. Money takers take money. Payer saps pay money. I need to sell some things.
In Search of a Traditional Japanese Tattoo
It was the apex of spring in Japan, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom, and the cold winds of winter were beginning to die down to a gentle, welcoming hum. The people of Kyoto were just beginning to take their first tentative steps out of their winter hibernations, and were welcoming the renewal of the season with subtle anticipation. The sun shown sharply, and the bicycle riding masses rode on with glee. Pots of flowers were re-placed in doorways after a season of absconding inside, and the air was bitingly fresh. I caught a bus down to Kitaoji Dori with a friend who would serve me a formal introduction to the old horimono master to whom I would make a request to tattoo the entire surface of my back.
Her name was Rosemary and she reminded me of my father. She was so aloofly dominating that I could not even carry on the slightest of conversation with her. She was beautiful, yes, but it was a beauty that was much too far away to provoke even the slightest of sexual urges. Her hair was long and styled to go unnoticed. She was tall and her confidence made her even taller. Her body gave off an ambiguously cylindrical presence: no sign of excess fat, yet no sign of voluptuousness. She carried her thirty years of life on her face and in her stride; it was obvious that she had dug deep into the depths of life and came out the other side a touch un-amused. I’ve had worse, was her mantra, and, seriously, she probably had.
Rosemary was tight with a circle of men, who were well know as being involved with the Yakuza, that would receive tattoos from the traditional master Hori-itsu. This fact alone shows the power of her character, as it is extremely rare for a foreigner to be allotted confidence in such social spheres- and Rosemary was an American. It was even a rarer case as she had an orange koi tattooed up the entire length of the outside of her thigh, which was done in the traditional tebori (hand-made) style by one of the last surviving horimono masters in Japan, Hori-itsu. In Japan, traditional tattoo artist do not advertise on the street and it is necessary to secure a formal introduction from someone who is already in the social circle of an artist in order to receive a tattoo from them. This was the capacity in which Rosemary was serving for me.
So we hopped into the crowded bus and were greeted with the usual uncomfortably wry looks from the Japanese commuters who were the other passengers. We rode to the Kitaoji fashionable district of downtown Kyoto, got off in front of a giant shopping complex, and then walked through a series of canal hugged side allies. We were soon alone in the middle of a wayward lane which was occupied with sex hotels and other “pink” colored businesses. In the midst of all of this, Rosemary suddenly came to a halt, turned, and then walked down a few steps to a steel, windowless door, and spoke Japanese into the receiver that was on the wall. There was no sign, nor any other indication that we were at a tattoo studio. The door was soon automatically unlocked and we walked into a grey laden, empty, stair-well. We were soon met by a young Japanese man, and escorted into a room that was on the right.
Rosemary was greeted cheerfully by the surprised faces of her old friends, and I was absolutely floored by the scene that was before me. The ancient wood-block prints of Kuniyoshi hung all over the walls, drawings of large Japanese style tattoos on tracing paper were taped haphazardly around the room, a Japanese man with a body suit of tattoos laid upon the tatami mat that covered floor while the horimono master hand poked ink into the colorful menagerie of tattoo upon his upper thigh. The gentle, thap, thap, thap of the needles entering his skin was all that I could hear. I was thoroughly consumed. There were two other clients in the room, who were both completely tattooed, were missing fingers, and had deep scars that ran a gauntlet across their faces. They smiled at me. I bowed. I bowed excessively to everyone and then bowed some more, muttering overly formal greetings in unsteady Japanese all the while. I read somewhere that one should bow all the way to the ground in reverence to the horimono master upon entering his studio, and I nearly did so.
Rosemary soon got down to telling the master’s head apprentice that it was my wish to have the entire surface of my back tattooed in the traditional Japanese style. The design that I wanted was of the Flower Monk from Kuniyoshi’s woodblock prints that accompanied the legendary book, 108 Heroes of the Water Margin -which is simple called the Suikoden by those who are familiar with it. This was the book whose illustrations, as much as the written story, became a model by which the revolutionary fervor of Edo period Japan was given course. The lower castes of Edo society could easily identify with the heroes in the book, who were outlaws that fought against injustice in the name of brotherhood and riotousness. Subsequently, the images of the rebels from this book became extremely popular as tattoo designs and, as tattooing itself was even viewed as a revolutionary act, many of the oppressed classes of Edo society indulge in tattooing these images upon their bodies.
One of the apprentices formally introduced himself, and we sat down to discus my request. This initial stage of the Horimono processes is very volatile, as it is common for artists to decline tattooing clients whom they feel may debase the sanctity of their art. So the interview process began, and I was asked many in depth questions as to why I wanted that particular image tattooed upon me. These questions were wrought with hooks and traps intended to indicate the degree of my sincerity to, not only the piece which we were discussing but also, to the art and spirit of tattooing entirely.
As I told the apprentice that I wanted a design of the Flower Monk, inspired from the Suikoden prints, to be tattooed upon me he set in front of me three or four different options. These pictures, which were templates to base tattoos off of, were printed on standard sized paper and laid out over a coffee table in front of the couch that we were sitting upon. There were a variety of different styles represented in these pages: from the bold-lined, simplistic traditional images to the high detailed modern Japanese tattoo designs. I carefully looked through them all, and contemplated hard upon each, as this was for the tattoo that would cover my entire back; from the tops of my shoulders to the bottom of my buttocks, and would have the power to summarize, not only all my other tattoos, but my very character.
I paid particular attention to a drawing done by Horiyoshi III, who is the modern Japanese representative of tattooing to the west, and is of great international fame. This drawing served as the modern counter balance to the traditional designs and blatantly showed the direction in which tattooing in Japan is heading. A direction in which the use of electromagnetic machines are taking precedence over tebori (hand poking), chemical inks rather than grounded sumi, walk-in parlors instead of intimate and hidden studios, of western influenced, free-standing, tattoo designs rather than a single picture which covers body’s entire surface. It seems as if the base upon which the art of horimono stands- the very foundation of that which makes gives it its depth, spirit, power, beauty, tradition- is being cut out from under it by the cheap, quick and easy methods of the west. This pattern, exemplified by horimono, serves as a microcosm to represent what is happening throughout the entire cultural sphere of Japan.
As I held the drawing by Horiyoshi III, I knew that it simply did not have the depth nor character that I was looking for. So I quickly put it down and choose a drawing from among the traditional ones. I like this one, said the apprentice with a deep smile. I knew that I had made the right choice.
We then set about discussing the particulars of the tattoo. The Japanese process of designing tattoos is much different than that of the west. Most often, one chooses a design from the artist’s repertoire of template drawings and then the client and the master talk over any changes and inclusions that are desired. A custom tattoo is seldom ever performed in traditional horimono.
I soon found out that there are a plethora of unspoken rules by which the artist governs the creative direction of their art. Henceforth, it was a little difficult trying to design the tattoo within these boundaries. I was often told that my request to alter or add to the design simply could not be carried out, and the explanations as to why were straight forward, curt and logical. No, cherry blossoms and maple leaves cannot go in the same tattoo. They are from different seasons, the apprentice replied to my request with a nearly exasperated look on his face. Many similar replies and wry facial expressions continued to befall my errant requests. I soon got the feeling that I was beginning to look really dumb. So I threw my suggestions to the wind and took solace in the fact that I was dealing with time honored masters of the art who would create a piece of beauty and depth regardless of my interjections. In Japan, the tattoo is more the property of the artist than the one whose skin it is etched into. Therefore, the final say as to the creative direction of a tattoo is in the corner of the one who creates it, not the one who wears it. To be covered in the tattoo of a traditional Japanese tattoo artist is a privilege- for he is a master artisan in every sense of the title.
It was at this time that the master entered the reception room of the studio which we were sitting in. Everyone present, including the apprentices, immediately stood and bowed towards him in reverence. The master’s name was Tsukasa, an heir in the tattoo lineage of the sensei Hori-Itsu. Upon entering the room he turned towards me and we exchanged greetings.
The mood of the room felt to be a little on edge, as we did not know how I would be received, as a foreigner’s presence in a traditional horimono studio is very rare. But the master smiled at my fallow attempt at speaking Japanese, and the suspense of the moment was broken.
Tsukasa was tall and his eyes spoke of a man who knew how to control others. His appearance was of a typical yakuza: his hair was short and bleached, his skin was a well tanned brown, his face bore scars, and the small finger on his left hand was cut off at the first knuckle. He also wore a complete body suit of horimono, which peaked out from the bottom of his shirt sleeves. He appeared to be a Japanese gangster through and through. His presence alone was enough to indicate the power that he possessed, which made it needless for Rosemary to subsequently whisper explanations of such into my ear.
With a start, Tsukasa suddenly grabbed my expose lower left arm, which was covered in western style tattoos, and began closely studying each one. He stared intensely at them, and directly asked me questions about their significance, where they were done, and by whom in simple English. My answers came quickly and poignantly, even though I was trying hard to suppress my nervousness. Tsukasa and I stood facing each other in the middle of the studio, and although we were surrounded by many people, I was aware of nobody but my interviewer. The intensity with which he spoke was all encompassing.
When Tsukasa had satisfactorily concluded the interrogation, he exited with his apprentice into an adjacent room, and closed the curtain behind them. I knew that they were deciding my fate: would they approve my request to be tattooed? For ten minutes they stood in the little room talking, while I sat upon a couch consumed with apprehension. I made a false start at having a petty conversation with Rosemary, but we both knew that I was unsteady with nervous energy, so we just smiled at each other and waited for the decision.
Tsukasa and the apprentice then came out of deliberation. I stood and bowed in what I thought would be a polite gesture. They slightly bowed back, looked at me squarely, my heart nearly skipped a beat before the Master boldly told me to take off my clothes so that a stencil could be made. It was a go. They accepted my request.
Smiling, I promptly stepped into the working area of the studio with the apprentice, and stripped off my clothing. He taped a large piece of tracing paper upon my back, and drew the outline of my torso from my shoulders to buttocks. I then dressed and returned to the reception room to make the necessary logistical arrangements. When this was concluded, I was told that I would be called in at the appropriate time to view the initial drawings. Rosemary and I then walked to the door, and suppressing great shouts of joy, left the studio in a waves of bows.
The call never came. After three months of patient waiting, I received news that Tsukasa’s liver gave out after forty years of incessant alcohol and drug use. The Master of an ancient craft would never tattoo again.
Wade from www.VagabondJourney.com
Got shot in both arms today. Typhoid and tetnus/ diptheria boosters- $150. Ridiculous.
Went to the Niagara County travel health clinic in Niagara Falls; paid a mandatory $25 consultation fee for a "consultation" that never occurred and another $20 on top of that because the county of my residency did not provide the vaccines that I needed and therefore had to go to a higher populated county. $45 for absolutely nothing. Sure, I was given an internet printout of the CDC health webpages on China, which I previously printed out at my parent's home for free. $65 for the Typhoid and another $35 for tetnus vaccines. The funny thing is that I paid $150 ($115 if you only include travel specific innoculations) and I consider that to be a somewhat cheap sum to pay for service provided through the travel clinic. In fact, I was almost pleased. At least I did not go to a Passport Health; which is a private company that has been taking over travel related innoculations from public health departments in the USA and charging enormously exagerated amounts of money. This is the only place to recieve travel related vaccines in the area of Rochester, NY. I was quoted by them $550 for a round of Japanese encephalitis vaccine, over $600 for Rabies.........and to top it off you have to pay nearly $50 just to walk into the place. That is America. Sometimes, I like to laugh at it from afar.
But at least I DO have access to health care, even though it is really expensive....grumble......I hate these concluding rebuttals that begin with "at least"......haha.....it all ain't no thing I suppose...whatthehell, whatthehell.
For a long time I attepted to ignore any computer technology and viewed any time in which I used it as 'giving in." Now I realize that if I lived at the advent of the ballpoint pen I would continue writing with quill feathers. I use ballpoint pens.....not utalyzing the computer is simply a matter of weightless principle from which I have hoped to extract some measure of pretentious self-pride. I know this now, so here is a fucking blog.
My Brother in law, nephew and father. The males of the Shepard clan.
Had Christmas with family. I always try to be around Westen NY at this time of year, it is just a real happy time, lots of laughing and story telling. It also shows me that I have a place and a culture in which I am (almost) a part. I suppose that this is what is meant by home.
I have began to notice the yearly cycles that I have happenstancially been following. I tend to get a very strong urge to leave around mid-January and then again in the middle of May. This seems to be without logical basis....I just need a drastic change. I need to jump not cities nor countries but continents to feel content. I tend to listen to the Rooster and when he says run, I run.
The season of Archaeology is finished and I am pleased. I will try to find different work the next time I need to make up some bean money. It is just real easy to keep doing field work- it spurs on constant travel, living expenses are covered, and it pays a decent wage. But much can be gained through work other than bean money. Many of the hows of living can be learned through employment and I feel that it is way past time to increase my knowledge of the practical. I think that after five years of Archaeological fieldwork I have pretty much been saturated.
I recieved my invitation letter to apply for a year long student (X) visa for China. I now just need to get all the paperwork together and send it to a courior to take it to a consulate.
Work had me go off to Delaware. After which I became Delaworn. Joke, eh?
Who could really have anything to say about Delaware? Worked next to a post-industrial gas refinery belching grimness everywhere. One gets to the edge of this great continent and they find the most horrible of monstrosities sitting on the edge of the sea- repelling everything. Makes one KNOW just how pointless everything is, how there is just no reason to ever DO anything. And I laugh because I am going back to the east coast of China. Into the the heart of the smokestack.
Small little town with a real big stone edifice of a building meeting you as you cross over the Susquehanna river from the south. Nice book store downtown with grumpy workers who made me feel like a criminal for looking through a photo book of China. Left quickly without buying anything. Awesome Irish bar next to the dunkin donuts. Ancient beautifully worked wooden bar and a sign on the wall counting down the days to St. Patricks day. I really enjoy little efforts like this: everyday the lights are turned on, the front door unlocked, and another day is ticked off to St. Patrick's day. This little countdown became just as essential of a routine as hooking fresh beer up to the taps. The bartender was all Irish and tried to act rude...but it was all and act and was apparent. My grilled cheese in a basket was grilled cheese and the Labatt beer satisfying.
Small Pennsylvania town on the Susquehanna in the snowy hills. I dug it. Stayed at a nice little hotel in the countryside called the Sunrise Inn. The propreiters were an older Indian couple. Indian owned hotels in the States, or "curry inns" as Americans call them, are usually the best places to stay that one can find; if you dont mind that the furniture does not always match, that there may be clashing color schemes and the paintins on the walls are actualy meant to be looked at. In short, they are not mono-culturalized- the plague that has become America; what I can not tolerate most about the country where I was born.
The Archaeology was just exercise. We did not find any sites in the hills and valleys. It was real cold and I loved it. We went outside before sunrise and returned after the sun had set; outside for the entirety of the day. 10 hours a day, seven days a week. I found a certain bit of romance in this go.
Just waiting for invitation and acceptance letters from Zhejiang University in Hangzhou. Should be here within the next two weeks, maybe; then I can apply for a year long student visa. I will again be studying with the Friends World Program of Long Island University.
I attended this school before in Kyoto, Japan and was much too bullheaded to allow myself to really learn...Although I did learn from this. Needless to say, I had a plethora of problems with the center director who just happened to be a real unhappy combative woman anyway; so it worked out for both of us- we provided a mutual outlet for each others stubbornness. But, problems aside, I did turn out a couple independent studies that I think are decent. They are posted on this blog if you want to take a look.
I really like China, Donaldherbert's country. But this time I will not be in the hinter regions of the west but, rather, in the opulent and industrialized east; 100km south of Shanghai. Marco Polo called Hangzhou the loveliest city on the planet, so it is a pity that I do not think hta I will be able to say the same. Perhaps Hangzhou shall break my chauvinism against cities? Doubt it, but it has been a real long time since I lived for any reasonable length of time in a big city. Country mouse leaving the sticks and it could be a little fun.
Just not looking forward to that bai-jo shit liquor...it destroys. Invest two days of being hung-over for every night of drinking Chinese alcohol. The beer is no better. In Hong Kong there is a beer called Kingfisher, and on the label the slogan goes, "Kingfisher, The Beer Without formaldehyde." The selling point which implies............
Fucking sick. Chemicalated degraded beer in a chemicallated country.
This past week a mine colapesed killing 100 workers and a Chinese National Petroleum Company chemical plant in Harbin exploded severely polluting the Songhua river with Benzene. The mayor of Harbin went on the news and drank water from a residential tap and said that, "It tastes good." So I guess that means that it is safe. Laugh, try real hard. As I was just writing this I found out that another chemical plant exploded in south western Chongqing Province......This is daily. China is a mess. But everywhere you go you laugh....or try not to.
