To live in a world meant for other people

Because it is beautiful...along the Kanda River in the Nishiwaseda section of Tokyo, just outside my door. My books on Amazon | Subscribe to this site | Contact me  

A few days each year cherry blossoms fall from distant trees to float among the columns, to litter the surface with a softer edge, a more tenuous future. They are a reminder that one day these patterns too shall die and be replaced with something else. Meanwhile, below the surface, life changes unalterably. Syncopated Rhythm - James Halat My books on Amazon | Subscribe to this site | Contact me  

In many ways, Japan gets things exactly right. I moved here by accident a long time ago, and the country still surprises me. Before coming here, I accepted a lot of what I thought I knew about the world, only to discover that our man-made borders are tall and strong and act as walls to block the flow of general information. Of course, the internet helps to break down these walls, but so much information is buried in the avalanche we call social media, and the loudest voices seem to determine what we absorb. We simply can't sift through the rest. Time is just not on our side. But we do have a choice. The choice to look twice at things that come our way. Ask ourselves if what is in front of us makes sense or not. Ask ourselves if a different view might not explain things better. No matter where I live, I feel that I live in a world meant for other people. Truth be told, I feel no more foreign in Japan than I did in New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia, Los Angeles. I am always on t...

The water is murky. By the looks of it without direct sunlight since several years before we land on the moon. Diffraction patterns cover the surface. They emanate from circles, intersections of concrete, water, air, and light. The patterns display symmetries. They reflect the steady hum of traffic above. I will see these patterns many times, but I will lose the hum of traffic, because I start to listen to music during my commutes. It helps keep my little madman from torturing me while my arms are pinned to my sides. The mood of the patterns changes with the music. A hand shackles nature’s gentle flow in a sunless room filled with stale air, and creates something alive and beautiful. A few days each year cherry blossoms fall from distant trees to float among the columns, to litter the surface with a softer edge, a more tenuous future. They are a reminder that one day these patterns too shall die and be replaced with something else. Meanwhile, below the surface, life changes unalte...

Sometimes you find great art here Sometimes you find it in more unexpected places Places that don't exist anymore By someone you haven't seen in a while Read,  write,  paint,  pull out the camera,  take a look,  take a chance My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me   

Photos from the River Resort near Pakse, Laos along the Mekong River. It was built by a good friend of mine, designed by a Japanese architect with an eye for the environment. A great success, I think. Astonishing beauty. And a great place to write down words. Infinity Pool looking out onto the river A quiet moment (that's not me) A tree that seems to cast a long shadow   Rice fields anchor the resort   An afternoon cocktail (following a morning cocktail) River sunset My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me   

Once the stormy years of his early struggles were over, Dr. Juvenal Urbino had followed a set routine and achieved a respectability and prestige that had no equal in the province. He arose at the crack of dawn, when he began to take his secret medicines: potassium bromide to raise his spirits, salicylates for the ache in his bones when it rained, ergosterol drops for vertigo, belladonna for sound sleep. He took something every hour, always in secret, because in his long life as a doctor and teacher he had always opposed prescribing palliatives for old age: it was easier for him to bear other people’s pains than his own. In his pocket he always carried a little pad of camphor that he inhaled deeply when no one was watching to calm his fear of so many medicines mixed together. - Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera My books on Amazon   |   Subscribe to this site   |   Contac t me