92

I try my best to send out a quick email each day as soon as I hear the Yūyake Koyake – the song that plays at 17:00 JST signaling the end of the school day. I type as quickly as possible, click the send button, then after a short delay the whooshing sound of Apple's Mail program floats briefly over the top of the song echoing from the speakers outside in the street. The arrival of the Yūyake Koyake always takes me by surprise and the volume on my computer is consistently lower than I expect it to be, which I always note as I film this process. Currently, the day ends with a whoosh, which seems perfectly matched to the fleeting nature of life. Yet, were I to change the mail program's alert sound from a whoosh to a duck's quack, then the entire affair would take on a different tone and probably conclude with a slip on a banana peel, or two men in a horse costume.

The sunset is the end of the day,
the bell from the mountain temple rings,
hand by hand let’s go back home together with the crows.
After the children are back at home a big and round moon shines,
when the birds dream, the brightness from the stars fills the sky.

59

Early yesterday morning there was the tiniest glint of sunlight on the black plastic of the rice cooker as I circled around it. Last night there was a smiling, waning crescent moon set against a dark sky and the soft purple glow of the bug lamps along the running path. Today the kitchen soap bottle is refracting long green streaks across the countertop. Tomorrow when the moldy zombies emerge from the hospital next door there will also be red and green. The sequence is as follows: yellow, black, white, black, purple, black, green, white, red, green; yet the implications are inscrutable.

32

Earlier while heading west I saw a man wearing a backpack and technical vest photographing a willing cat on the north side of the Shakujii gawa with an expensive digital single-lens reflex camera. Shortly afterward on the south side of the river I saw a different man (I think) in knee length shorts holding a small plastic grocery bag in his left hand while leaning precariously over a bush to photograph an awkwardly located flower stem with the mobile phone in his right hand. Now I hear the sharp sounds careening off the river embankments of someone clipping their fingernails indicating that unfortunately, personal grooming is publicly taking place somewhere off in the distance beyond the river bend. Perhaps later in the day I will come across a small pile of waning crescent moons further west.

14

Harvest moon viewing with red, green, and yellow traffic signals. Why couldn’t traffic signals be in red, green, and blue – the additive primary colors?

13

What better way is there to celebrate the autumnal moonlight viewing in Tokyo (中秋の名月 – chushu no meigetsu) than by watching golfers at a driving range? The manner in which they send their small white offerings off into the night sky is an elegant practice and I think that the moon appreciates this, welcoming the golf balls like a duck receiving its returning ducklings. Circling behind the driving range I make my way up to the screened windows and peer at the golfers from just feet away. I accompany each of their swings with a hushed imitation of a duck quack.