I'm sitting in a coffee shop, notebook open in front of me, pencil in hand, staring out the window at the world going by. I had prepared a little slip of paper this morning with a few essay ideas scribbled on it, but now that I look it over, I see that they are all too 'serious' for my mood at the moment. I don't quite feel like tackling a particularly deep subject today ...

It has become something of a routine recently, to spend the two hours that Himi and Fumi are in their piano class at a nearby music school, in 'scribbling' in this little notebook. I've fallen so far behind schedule in the printmaking work this year, that it's been difficult to justify spending time on this essay hobby during the working day, but as there is no way that I can use this particular time slot each week for any 'real' work, my conscience is clear if I 'steal' it for writing ... Those schedule problems though, mean that unlike last September, when I wrote one of these little pieces every few days, I am now down to about one a week, each one written in this Thursday evening time slot. One a week though, is still 52 a year ... a fair body of work for an investment of just two hours a week ... But as I feel that my suggested topics all seem too heavy, perhaps today will be a 'pass'. Maybe only 51 this year ...

As I sit daydreaming, I notice that just across the street, with a large sign facing directly towards me, is the office of the real estate agent who manages our apartment building, and with whom I signed our lease nearly nine years ago ... and there, I see that a topic has found me after all ...

I'm a 'planner'. I always like to know where I am, what I'm doing, where I'm going, and how long it's going to take to get there. I mean this in both senses ... the 'micro' daily sense ... and the 'macro' lifetime sense. Or if perhaps not lifetime, then at least for some years down the line. I suppose this comes from a desire to feel like I am in control of things, and am not simply being buffeted in a random fashion to and fro around the universe, and through life.

But have you ever noticed how it is that no matter how seriously we try and direct our own affairs, and how carefully we plan things, it seems that major changes in our life frequently turn out to hinge on some tiny serendipitous event, unplanned and unexpected? In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that this may be the rule rather than the exception.

This real estate office across the street is a good case in point. Quite a lot of very important things in my life, including: - my current occupation (producing a series of 100 woodblock prints) - my residence (and thus my entire circle of acquaintances and friends) - my marital status and partner, indeed just about every single aspect of my life during the past decade, all depend ... on my having turned left instead of right at that corner over there one particular day ... on my noticing out of the corner of my eye a tiny 'For Rent' notice ... and on a certain 'friendly to foreigners' staff member being on duty at that particular moment ... If any one of those things had been different ... Where would I be, and what would I be doing now? Of course, it is impossible to tell. My life could be much worse ... or it could be much better. About the only thing certain, is that it would be very different.

Now there are two viewpoints on this sort of thing. One says that if you have a goal firmly fixed in mind, then these little 'turn left/turn right' incidents may influence the particular path one follows towards that goal, but they will not affect greatly the 'big picture'. Your life can indeed run basically in the overall direction you intend. Only some details will be different. You are mostly responsible for what happens to you. Whether I had turned left or turned right that day nine years ago, I would probably still be in pretty much the same position now. The other person would argue that no, no matter how well we try and direct the course of our lives, the universe is just too complicated a place to do so with any real chance of success, and that we will always be caught up in the flow of events beyond our control. Have goals in mind if you like, but don't kid yourself that you will be able to 'control' things to the extent that you may like. Those left or right turns can, and probably will, truly send you down completely different paths. And as you can't possibly have any idea what will transpire along each route, it is a complete waste of time to even consider the consequences of such decisions.

As you can tell from what I said earlier about being a 'planner', I suppose I fall into the first category. I pride myself on my 'thinking' abilities, the way in which I feel I can shape the course of my own destiny ... Just look at the facts: ten years ago back in Canada, I had a dream of becoming a woodblock printmaker ... and here I am, after any number of subsequent 'lefts' and 'rights' ... a woodblock printmaker.

But the fact that I turned left that day ... and thus found this particular place to live ... and thus visited that particular library ... and thus was shown that particular illustration ... and thus started my Hyaku-nin Isshu project ... and thus became successful ... brings up the question, "What if I had turned right instead? Surely, in that case, I wouldn't have found this success." I think though, that this is faulty reasoning. If I had turned right, the opportunities may have been different, but what I made of them, would have possibly been the same. I may not have now been involved in making Hyaku-nin Isshu prints, but I would be doing something of the sort. I could still have become a successful printmaker. If my committment to that goal had been strong enough.

My friend Sadako though, in as much as I have so far learned what her personality is like, seems to lean more towards the second type. I don't know if this is a 'built-in' aspect of her character, or results from her having been buffeted around by fate somewhat more than I, but whatever the cause, she definitely thinks that I 'think' too much, that I 'plan' too much, and that overall, I worry too much about the 'how' ... 'why' ... and 'what' ...

Whereas I feel that my life could be described as a journey across interesting territory in some sort of vehicle that I am able to steer this way and that, exploring until I ultimately 'run out of gas' one day, she rather looks at life as a trip floating down a wide, long river. Although one may indeed get to some interesting places, there isn't much point trying to 'drive' too much, because you're only going where the river carries you. Yes, have some goals. Of course don't just be a vegetable. But don't lose sight of the fact that a very large part of your life is actually out of your own hands. And that in the end, we will all end up in exactly the same place ...

What do you think about these ideas? Actually, for me a more interesting question at the moment would be: what do you think about a couple who hold such differing ideas? Would they be like that standard comedy couple in a car, never able to agree on a destination, let alone a route? Or would they perhaps be good 'medicine' for each other, keeping each other in contact with a more realistic, practical way of living?

We'll see ...

P.S. What was it I said a couple of pages back ... 'I don't quite feel like tackling a particularly 'deep' subject today ...' Well, perhaps if I had turned right instead of left when looking for an empty table in the coffee shop, I wouldn't have got myself into this tonight ...

(June 1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 02:01 PM | Comments (0)

I went into downtown Tokyo the other day, a trip I don't make very often these days. My printmaking work is all done in my home, so there's no commuting, and most of my shopping is done locally here in Hamura. But there is one kind of shopping that I can't do here in this neighbourhood, and a few times each year, when my 'stock' is getting low, I have to make the trek downtown for replenishment. My stock ...?

My stock of books! You see, although there are literally dozens of bookshops here in Hamura, and in every town right across this very literate country, they aren't much good to me. They aren't much good, because I'm still pretty much illiterate. Even after nine years living here now, I'm not yet able to pick up any book at random and read it. Now I say 'illiterate', but perhaps that is being a bit too tough on myself ... I can indeed read quite a number of 'kanji', the Chinese characters, but 'quite a number' doesn't really go very far, not when the total in daily use is nearly 2000! If the topic of the written material is something close to home, such as woodblock printmaking, then I can usually acquit myself honourably, but ask me to read an average newspaper story ... and I will run out of steam very quickly.

The random nature in which my reading ability is being acquired causes quite some confusion among people I meet. For example, a short while ago, I was describing my printmaking project to an interviewer, and as part of my explanation, I showed him the newsletter I produce, which is bilingual - Japanese and English. Now, I don't do the translations from English myself, but after they are finished, I do all the input into the word processor, in both languages. I then proofread everything, print it out, and paste it up for the printer. Hearing me describe this process apparently gave him a certain impression of my level of Japanese literacy, and he was shocked a few minutes later to find that I couldn't read very much of a sample of his magazine that he showed me.

Perhaps the best way to describe my Japanese ability is to imagine a huge mosaic picture, made up of many tiny tiles. In the beginning, these tiles are all hidden, but as one learns characters and words, one by one they become visible, until finally the complete picture stands clear. I am learning Japanese in a pretty much random fashion, picking it up bit-by-bit here and there, and as a result, the 'tiles' I have learned to date are scattered thinly all across the entire surface, with only a few clumps here and there where some particular topic has interested me. I can see only the vaguest form of the overall picture.

Someone like my daughter Himi on the other hand, who is learning Japanese at school in a highly structured step-by-step fashion, can see nothing at all of the upper part of the picture, but has completely 'filled in' the lower portion. And of course, her knowledge is expanding upwards year-by-year until it will eventually encompass the entire 'canvas'.

Just three or four years ago, she used to come to me frequently while doing her homework; "How do you read this character?" she would ask. Those days are long gone, and it is I who now ask her, "Himi-chan, please ..." I have been grappling with Japanese (I can't honestly say 'studying') since just about the time she was born, and my knowledge has progressed slowly, slowly upwards since that time. But although she started years later than I, she is now leaving me far behind.

The only excuse I can offer for my sluggishness is that I am 'busy' making a living. I don't have time for studying. Actually though, that is not true. It's simply that I don't like studying. I would much rather learn Japanese the same way that I learned English; by drinking in whatever written material passes in front of my eyes, and trying to figure out what it all means. I don't remember those days at all, but my mother tells me that when I was very young, I used to try and read the cereal boxes and milk cartons on the table at breakfast time, and that anytime she took me out for a walk, I would try and read the signs on the buses, etc. I think it must have been an exciting time for me, faced with that vast puzzle ... what do all those squiggles mean? And I'm sure there was a burst of pleasure each time I was able to successfully 'decode' something. How can I be so sure of that? Simple. Because I'm living those times again, right now! Now, at age 43, I'm living again the life of a wide-eyed curious three year old. What do all those squiggles mean? And the pleasure that I feel when I successfully decode a new one and add it to that slowly developing 'mosaic', is very real indeed.

Because I don't spend any time at all in formal study of Japanese, at the rate I'm going, it will be a long, long time before I can feel comfortable in the local bookshops. And that's where those occasional trips to Tokyo come about. Up on the third floor of an office building near one of the main train stations, is a used book shop with a difference ... the shelves are all full of books in English. I don't have to wander along the rows, slowly decoding characters one by one, searching for something that looks like it might repay the immense effort it will take me to read it. Instead, I wander along, head turned sideways reading the titles (I sure wish we could easily write English vertically ...), and usually find that, perhaps due to my months of 'isolation' since the last visit, everything looks interesting.

I keep choosing until I've got enough to fill my backpack, then pay the exhorbitant bill and struggle off homewards, of course dipping into the bag while on the train. This load will keep me going for a few months, until the 'not yet read' shelf starts to get bare again ...

So I live in the best of both worlds ... I'm a literate adult, with plenty of interesting reading material always on hand, and yet at the same time, I'm a wide-eyed three year old, enjoying the feelings of infinite challenge and accomplishment that come with exploring the new world of language.

There's just one thing missing. Back in those early days, my mother sat together with me, and read out loud while tracing the words in the books with her finger. I think that this was an essential part of the learning process, and I'm sure that we spent many happy hours together that way. But who is going to do that with this (forty) three year old ...?

(June 1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 01:58 PM | Comments (0)

I wrote a while ago about my problems with 'literacy', the feeling of being an adult, and yet unable to function at the level of even a quite young child. This was of course in relation to my weak ability at reading and writing Japanese, so I was somewhat surprised the other day when I was discussing that little essay with a friend, to learn that he knew exactly how I felt, because he had the same problem.

This was a surprise to me because I hadn't been aware that he was trying to learn another language, but that's not what he had in mind. He was talking about a different kind of literacy ... computer literacy. He knows absolutely nothing about computers, but finds that many of the people around him, including his own children, are not only comfortable with them, but positively literate! Now a decade or so ago, the idea that he should learn something about computers had never crossed his mind; computers were machines for specialists, and they had no part in the daily life of 'common' people. But of course, under the constant bombardment of media stories in recent years describing computers as essential tools for life today, he has become thoroughly confused. Multimedia ... Internet ... CD-ROM ... What is all this stuff about? Do we really have to learn this? The implicit message he has picked up from this avalanche of information has been that if you're not computer literate, you're 'out of it', and would very soon find yourself unable to do even such simple activities as go shopping or read the news, as these things will soon all be done by computer.

He sympathized with my problems of learning the language here, but felt that I had brought them on myself, by choosing to move to a different country. He, on the other hand, felt 'innocent'; he had done nothing, had not asked for this confusion. To him it seemed a bit unfair, as though the rules had been changed suddenly.

Now as it happens, computer literacy is not something I have a problem with. I got 'on board' the computer train relatively early, back at the end of the 70's. When the first microcomputers (as they were then called) came along, I became quite fascinated with them, and as there seemed no possibility of using computers in the place where I was then working, I left the job to spend time studying up on the subject. About a year later, I returned to the company to design and install a computer system for them, using one of those early (pre IBM-PC) machines. The company greatly benefitted from the new system, which greatly improved their efficiency, and I too benefitted, to the extent that I became quite fluent in the ins and outs of desktop computers.

But when I left that employment permanently in the mid-80's to move to Japan and take up the life of a woodblock printmaker, my association with computers seemed to be at an end. After all, what possible use could there be for a computer in the job I was now taking on ... the recreation of a set of 200 year old prints, using none but 200 year old techniques? Not much.

During the intervening years though, while busy with this old-fashioned work, I still continued to keep an interested eye on the development of small computers. Even though my daily work has no connection to modern technologies, I have not become a 'technophobe', and feel that this new easy access to powerful computers is one of the most important events in the history of mankind. But even though I had used computers in my job ... even though I felt they were important for our lives ... even though I had children here who could have benefitted from learning about them ... I didn't buy one for our home. I wasn't interested in having a 'toy' computer around the house.

Does that make sense? Ten years ago I had felt that a small computer was sophisticated enough to control a multi-million dollar business application, but now, even with the stunning advances in technology that had taken place in the meantime, I felt that there was no place for one in my home. It does make sense if you know that my viewpoint ten years ago differed greatly from my current way of thinking. Then, I was a programmer. Now, I was looking at things from the point of view of a user.

Programming a computer to make it do what you want can be a truly fascinating and creative process (if you are so inclined ...). It can be an interesting and rewarding job, or an all-consuming hobby. I had enjoyed the programming job I had done very much, but this was due mostly to my keen interest in the end product of my work - the improvement of our business operations. Once that was done though, my interest in creating computer applications faded. I had no desire to become a full-time programmer creating systems for other people, people in whose applications I would have only a passing interest.

I did though, still have a desire to use a computer. But without a well-defined application in mind, such a desire means nothing. During that time of working with computers I had learned a very important thing about choosing and using a computer - that the first step was to define one's application, the way in which a computer could be useful to you; the second was to select (or create) appropriate software (programs) to serve that application; and the third (and least important) step was to then choose suitable hardware on which to operate that software. If any of these three steps were omitted or performed carelessly, or if they were done out of order, the resulting installation would almost certainly be a failure, whether it be a massive business system that would then cause chaos in company operations, or a small home 'hobby' system, that would soon find itself parked in a closet.

For me, as a potential home user, the process came to a halt right at step one. I was unable to define a suitable application for a computer in my home, and without such an application, I knew that there was no purpose in even thinking about getting a computer. So for years, about ten years, I gave up on computers, quit reading computer magazines, and passed by the computer shops. Was I worried about my computer 'literacy'? Not at all. Unlike the friend I mentioned a minute ago, I knew enough about them to know that when they were 'ready', they would come and let me know.

And some months ago, they came knocking! I was in a music shop downtown, looking for a new keyboard instrument to replace the small one on which my daughters had been learning about music, and saw a demonstration of how a computer could be used to control a synthesizer in a 'music workbench' system, allowing one to write music onto the computer screen, and then hear it played back by the synthesizer. I had known such systems existed, because I had seen a demonstration of such a thing about fifteen years previously, but that was in a university research laboratory, and utilized a room-sized computer, hardly something to keep on my 'wish' list. But here it was ... not room-sized, but sitting on a desktop ... steps one, two and three (application, software, and hardware) all wrapped together, and very reasonably priced.

I didn't buy it immediately, but stepped back a bit and did some research into which one among the many competing systems might suit us best. Once I thought I understood the various options well, I chose the unit I felt to be the most appropriate for us, and brought it home. Since then, it has provided us with many happy hours (too many!) of education and entertainment. (I can't decide which of those two words is the most appropriate!) The music I've been writing with the assistance of my new computer certainly isn't going to climb very high in the 'charts', but that's not the point. I'm having a great deal of fun.

It does feel good to be back involved with computers again. But I must admit that there is now somewhat of a 'schizophrenic' feel to my life. I spend most of each day living about two hundred years in the past, carving and printing my woodblocks, but as soon as I step out of the workroom and sit down in front of my 'Mac', one tiny 'click' of the mouse brings me zooming instantly back to the present.

Or is it the future? I can't quite tell the difference anymore!

(June 1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 01:56 PM | Comments (0)

I read an article recently in my newspaper that discussed recent moves to regulate liquor advertising, both on TV and in the print media. The concern seemed to be 'lifestyle' advertising, in which the focus is not so much on 'Brand X Beer' itself, but on the establishment of a connection in the viewer's mind between 'Brand X Beer' and 'What a wonderful life!' Stunningly beautiful people, all with perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect clothing, etc., engage in exotic sports activities under a perfect blue sky ... You know the kind of advertising I mean.

Now although I don't intend to portray myself to you as a 'wimpy' type, I must admit that when I was younger, even though I knew (1) that it was only advertising, not reality, and (2) that I didn't desire that kind of lifestyle anyway; repeated viewing of such images did leave me with the feeling that out there somewhere were people who really knew how to live. People who really 'had it together'. The life I was leading was substandard and boring. I was not one of the 'beautiful people' ... the 'golden boys'. I was not, and would never be.

Now, at age 43, I can easily laugh about such thoughts, but in my late teens and early 20's, I don't suppose I was laughing much. The difference of course, is that over the intervening years I have done enough interesting things, and notched enough accomplishments on my belt, that my self-image is quite secure, and I no longer feel 'substandard' in any way at all. I am the equal of any man out there. But along the way, I had a bit of actual contact with the world of those 'golden boys' ... and I think it's a good thing that I don't have a TV in my home any more, because if I saw any of those lifestyle ads now, I'd probably hurt myself laughing too much ...

I was 28 years old, living by myself, and working as branch manager of a music shop. The head office was a couple of thousand miles away, so there was a fair amount of independence and responsibility attached to the job. I did my work diligently, although I wan't really suited to it (I didn't have enough drive and creativity, but behaved too much like a caretaker ...). One day, I was chatting with one of my employees about this and that, and for some reason the subject of skydiving came up at one point in our conversation. It must have stuck in my mind somehow, for later that day, under what crazy influence I can't remember, I looked up a skydiving club in the phone book, called for information, and made a reservation to take their 'first jump' course the coming weekend. When my colleague heard about this, he decided to join me, and the following Sunday found the two of us driving out towards the farm that served as a 'drop zone', each of us I'm sure, hoping that something would come along to put a stop to this silly adventure ... a flat tire ... something ... anything!

But nothing came along, and the two of us spent the day undergoing the necessary training and preparation for the jump. And then, late that afternoon, there we were, 3,000 feet up in the air, bundled up in the gear, sitting in the open doorway of an airplane, looking rather unbelievably out at the ground so far far below.

Of course for a first-time jumper, the system is pretty foolproof. An automatic wire pulls the ripcord, the chute is huge and basically uncontrollable, the instructor chooses the location to jump ... All you have to do by yourself is get out the door. (And perhaps the instructor helped me with that too ... How else would I have got that boot-shaped bruise on my backside ...?)

It was an astonishing experience. I remember nothing at all of the jump itself. Nothing. But I will never ever forget the feeling of standing up in the muddy field with the parachute lying tangled all around me, and nearly crying with delight ... I did it! Me! I jumped out of an airplane!

The two of us were back again the next weekend. We were hooked. And for the next year or so, until I moved away from the area, we were regular visitors (more than regular ... when I left the music shop I lived on the drop zone and jumped daily for three months!) We bought chutes, joined the national skydiver's association, and started the climb up the proficiency ladder. My friend was more of a 'free spirit' than I, and his climb was much more rapid than mine, but after some months I too was diving head first out the door at 10,000 feet for a free-fall lasting nearly a minute, swooping and sliding around the sky, and then opening the wing-shaped chute and flying it home to the target spot.

It was a wonderful hobby, and it was very satisfying to feel the steady development of skills. And of course, unless you've done it yourself, I can't possible communicate to you the incredible sensations of flying around all alone up there in the wide, wide sky ...

But I'm getting away from my story. One day, one beautiful blue day, a group of visitors came to the drop zone. A group of visitors with perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect smiles ... Can you guess what I'm going to say? Yes, a bunch of actors, and a video production crew, there to make a beer commercial. Our job, we regular club members, was to hang around in the background doing our normal things, and provide the shots of skydivers skydiving. The 'far' shots, that is. The 'close-ups' were done with the 'perfect' actors. As none of these people were actual skydivers, the shots of them coming in for a landing were done by suspending them from a harness hooked up to a crane. They were strapped in, hoisted up into the air, and then swung around on the crane arm as they were lowered to the ground. The camera of course didn't show the crane, and I suppose the finished effort was probably quite realistic, showing them coming down from the 'sky', landing lightly, and popping a "Brand X' beer ...

(I should mention that despite what that stupid commercial implied, beer and skydiving were never mixed at the drop zone. The key to the drinks cooler only came off the hook after the plane's ignition key went onto it ...)

We 'real' skydivers sat back and watched the filming process with some amazement, and of course, boundless scorn. There they were, right in front of us, the 'golden boys', objects of all that teen-age envy ... Here they were, with wide perfect smiles and wearing those perfect jump suits, dangling stupidly from that crane, while we, the 'normal' guys, went quietly about our 'normal' business, throwing ourselves out of the open door 10,000 feet up ... The experience of watching those actors, and the experience of being a skydiver in general, gave me a new perspective on things. It made me realize not that "Hey, I'm a golden boy," but that there simply is no such thing ...

Perhaps out there somewhere are people who really know how to live, people who really do 'have it together'. Perhaps. But I don't think you'll find them by following a trail of 'Brand X' empties!

(June 1995)

Posted by Dave Bull at 03:00 PM | Comments (0)