SEA-SIGHT: DAY SIX
northward the honshu coastline in an effort to honour the landscape with poetry
after spending the night in sendai’s neon we make our way back to the coast in bursts of frenetic traffic. it’s perhaps hyperbolic to say, but coming back with the sea is a relief not dissimilar to the unholding of a breath, the re-adjustment of a locked limb, the soothe of darkness after a long, bright day; it is a distinctly physical sensation, an agreement between what one senses and what one feels, concurrences between the body and the mind.
we’ve made agreements to stay the night at koganeyama shrine on kinkasan, the site closest to the epicentre of the 3/11 earthquake, greatly revered for its sanctity and holding, what I imagine, a vast encyclopaedia of narratives. the winds are strong, and the only boat that will take us there emphasizes that we should hurry. so in lieu of pathing the ambitious and scruffy bite of the southern miyagi coastline, we make our way straight to the port.
but as with all determinations, one is easily offset by temptation; hurrying through the gorgeously sand-scratched town of matsushima it becomes impossible to ignore the expanse of the currents—sparklers in the occasional sun—here and there with holes of land in between them. hastily stopping (in a lot whose lip brushes along the sea), f and I grab our respective materials, and I head upward. at the tip of oshima (one of many) there is the stilled roof, wood smoothed by touch. the path towards it is a diamantine carpet of pine and ice. the air is wide awake in needle pricks. suddenly the sky clears, as proper as theatre, and the synchrony of living reveals itself. the density of time expands, every moment is filled to bursting.
the spectacular minutes, though they go uncounted by some, are still proceeding regularly by the clocks. we’re much too late to arrive at the port, and the boatman greets us with a curt, barely-there greeting before shuffling us onto a rickety speedboat (the bravely scarlet sea dream), ungraciously ejecting us from the pier.
one must always recognize the ocean for its supremacy. its rupturing prowess, its mercurial temperament. between the heightened, fog-filled sun, the mechanical motor-screech, and the thrilled foam spit from between the brief partings of the waters, I am aware of our minor nature. but the joy of being here, in what can only be described as the great middle of happenings, is immense.
when we arrive, a car is waiting to take us up the arching road, towards the temple endured in the mountain embrace. a deer steps her own reverent way down the steep stone steps of the altar. the buildings bear their age, the carvings curious in the way that it both inhabits and transforms the wood. at the reception the monks greet us with casual acknowledgement, revealing only mildly their surprise at our determination to have come, and explain the guides of our stay in a way that essentially comes down to, you coming to pray? 7:30. okay good. dinner at 5:30. breakfast after prayer. there is a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. it is pleasant, though somewhat odd, to have interrupted them at their irreverent rhythms.
our room opens up to a sheer mirage of golden glow and subzero temperatures. it is very old, and very beautiful. the sun is apricot and clay.
the force of the wind is terrible and commanding; two gales must have met longingly from opposite ends. my hands numb around the pen. the paper is aching to escape the hold. writing becomes an impossible endeavour at the darkly yellow grasses of the dusking precipice, so f and I seek the shelter of the forest in the last dip of light.
once the marigold is conquered by the indigo, we walk back to our room with nothing but questions. the day is stretched to hold an astounding array of feelings and places and senses. it is dizzying—its horizontal nature. the way we manage to keep ourselves whole, despite the way the hours tear us from end to end.
