Writers In Kyoto

Page 18 of 65

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Here be Dragons

March 28, 2022

‘Hic svnt Dracons‘
by Alex Olivera

By way of introduction….

Louise Bourgeois once said that the artist who discusses the so-called ‘meaning of his work’ is usually describing a literary side issue, and that the core of their original impulse is to be discovered, if at all, in the work itself. It is under this light that I find myself introducing this novel, as if in a deep labyrinth of mirrors, hoping that the Minotaur will not get hold of me in the process.

I take this extraordinary opportunity to come out of my intimate ‘written realm’, and to look upon it. It feels at once familiar and strange… Familiar, for the core of this story has always been inside me, even if in different formats, such as music or art. Strange, for I am not quite sure about ‘who’ actually wrote it. In this sense, the writing process is perhaps not so much guided by a Muse, but by the characters themselves, quite frequently in a revolt which you need to make sense of in the aftermath.

This novel was born in the mountains of central Japan. I was taken by surprise, I had no idea where this was going. I wrote notes and more notes wherever I could; napkins, occasional booklets, supermarket tickets… Words and images kept pouring down and did not leave me for a full five months – fortunately by that time I had got hold of my computer. 

By the end – and several kilos less – this story needed a name; it became Here be Dragons. It just could not be called any other way. Yes, I am aware it sounds ‘common place’, but as the story itself suggests, we tend to pass by things that seem too obvious. Is it not the case that the obvious is the most difficult to see? Dragons are masters of deception, after all. They represent the illusions of the ego, they are summoned to produce fear and keep us ‘at bay’.

I would like to think of this novel as an intimate, historical fiction. It is set in Japan, touching different periods and social strata, where generations and personal saga flow slowly into a common sea. But as much as culture framed the stories,  individually or collectively, the subject is still universal, for it is the drama of a search for love and a place in the world.  So this story is also ours. 

***********************

Novel extract

His mother had told him that, during the Meiji Restoration, his obā-san had lived in China with her parents and fourteen siblings, including her twin brother. ‘Out to the west, farther even than where the sun goes down,’ she said, ‘in the land of silk and gunpowder.’ In those days her father worked for the Japanese government. She was still only little when war loomed over the horizon. In a matter of days her family dismantled the entire house and packed up everything from the dinner service to the folding screens. They let the birds out of their cages and left at full tilt, returning to Japan aboard a Navy warship. Amidst all these hasty preparations and with so many children to see to, they had scooped up the little girl’s twin brother but somehow contrived to leave her behind. They were in the curious habit of counting the twins as a pair; add them together and they made one. This must have been the source of the confusion, for no one noticed the little girl’s absence until dinnertime, when they were already far out at sea. The nanny had counted and recounted them. But every time she totted them up on her fingers, she couldn’t work out where it was that she had gone wrong. So she lined them up, took the abacus out of her bag and counted one last time: the little girl was missing. In light of their daughter’s inveterate penchant for hiding, the family held out the hope she might still be tucked away inside one of the travelling baskets. ‘Could we have locked her in a trunk?’ they asked themselves, racing to the cargo hold. They rifled through the luggage – other people’s as well as their own – well into the small hours… but all to no avail. The little girl was nowhere to be found.

Communications were down due to bad weather; there was no way of contacting the Consulate. Still they tried and tried, regardless, all journey long, beaming out a stream of telegraphs but receiving none in reply. All they could make out over the radio set, crackling strangely in sounds not of this world, were Russian voices, possibly officers aboard other ships. By the time they put in at Tokyo, they were worn ragged with desperation. The mere thought of having abandoned their child, of having left her in such dire straits, triggered in them such shame that they agreed they would, in future, never own to having fifteen children, but fourteen. People were bound to forget, what with everything else that was going on… But, despite having only a vague notion of the exact numbers involved, their relatives remembered perfectly well there had been twins. So they set about pairing off the smallest girl and the remaining twin, they being the most alike. As they grew older, however, people began to suspect there was something ‘wrong’ with this impromptu sister, still a pint-sized dot next to her ‘twin’ brother. To make matters worse, as some of the children had been born in China – nikkeijin kids as they were known, a mildly derogatory epithet that they never quite succeeded in living down – the conclusion they came to was that the twin brother must have been switched for a girl in hospital, the birth of a girl having always been regarded as a tremendous misfortune in China. In all that time not a day went by without her parents secretly visiting the Foreign Ministry, or the Department of War, or any temple they could find to pray in. They began by invoking the Celestial Goddesses of China, believing them to be the most helpful, given their superior knowledge of the local geography, and who knows… they be mothers themselves – in some distant and ephemeral dimension, of course. But on further consideration they spotted a flaw in this logic: the two nations were, after all, locked in a ferocious war and no assistance could be expected from Chinese gods. That put an end to all their hopes. Three years on, they had resigned themselves to never seeing their daughter again and had given her up as dead. But no sooner was her name engraved on the traditional wooden funeral tablets for the family altar, than the little girl reappeared – no one could say where from – carrying a canary in a cage. She was delivered to them by a Chinaman with a long wispy moustache, who introduced himself as ‘Chin Li Foo Jr., Magician’. The girl arrived speaking fluent Mandarin and not a word of Japanese. But, despite a protracted conversation, neither party could understand a word the other was saying, so they agreed to communicate in ideograms, which they wrote on the black slate her brothers used for their homework. From what they could decipher – or rather, infer – the girl had taken a book from the Shin Doji Orai no Jiten Daizen collection, which had been sitting in a half-packed box awaiting removal. She had then apparently hidden herself away in the little tea-house by the carp-pond and fallen asleep. No one knew for certain how much time had passed before the good man found her wandering the back streets of Peking barefoot and alone, clutching her book for she was worth. Nor did they ever manage to solve the mystery of how she came to be in such a place. Still, what mattered was that the magician had taken her with him, treating her like his own daughter. The girl must have had several years of excitement as they moved about the country in their small travelling circus, but she remained forever tight-lipped about that period of her life. The fact that she had picked the first volume from the fukuro toji collection was another stroke of luck. On the first page of that particular volume, on the ex-libris, was written the address of the house where the family had previously lived in Japan and where they would be bound to return one day. Her father’s name appeared clearly: ‘Chairman Ito Yoshimi’, written in kuro sumi, and in immaculate calligraphy. Indeed, it was the only page to have survived intact. The magician received a substantial sum for his generous actions before vanishing back into the world whence he came. The girl and her family found it equally difficult to readjust to each other after such prolonged, involuntary exile. It was especially hard for her siblings, as she had learned a few tricks in their time apart, such as making biscuits vanish without a trace. Little did it matter if they used seven keys to lock her away; she would always escape her punishments; no one could do a thing about it.

*******************

More about Alex on her website and social media: https://alexoliveraj.wixsite.com/mysite/about
Facebook: Alex Olivera de Bary & Hic_svnt_Dracons
IG: https://www.instagram.com/hic_svnt_dracons/

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Crawling Curmudgeonly along Hiei’s Eastern Hills

March 24, 2022

by Edward J. Taylor

The closer we got to Mt. Hiei’s eastern face, the less I liked the look of the sky. Those carved valleys were holding onto clouds, letting loose precipitation which would eventually precipitate cuts deeper still. Mere minutes off the train, the rain found us, and the cuts most quickly noticeable were those in my mood. The squall moved on soon enough but my mood remained dark. We’d had a black cat run out in front of our bicycles earlier, and those old wives tales were proving their staying power. Yet can I default to superstition what had truthfully been my own absent-mindedness? In less than 15 minutes, I’d forgotten my camera, habitually stepped into flimsy sandals rather than decent hiking shoes, and boarded the wrong train. At the very moment that I’d noticed my empty camera case, my wife and I had been deep into a conversation about a lecture she’d heard the day before. The speaker had mentioned that two of the major crises facing Japan are its falling birthrate and the lack of self-sustainable food sources. It was as if people today, overwhelmed with the conveniences of modern technological society, have forgotten two of the most fundamental parts of human survival— making food and having babies. Ironically, having forgotten my camera–the technological extension of the eye–I’d have to rely on my own sight and memory.

The beautiful roofs of Ōmi Jingu matched the line of hills behind it. The word “Ōmi,” used as a prefix for many of the towns and train stations in this area, denotes the region’s wealthy merchant background. This massive shrine, comparatively ornate for the simplistic nature of Shinto, was a testament to that wealth. After a few claps and a bow of the head we moved on. And got lost. Our intention was to follow a section of the Ōmi Kaidō, a minor feudal highway that ran down the western shore of Lake Biwa. It took us some time to find a trail marker, this one behind a fence and facing in the direction where it was least likely to be seen. After about a hundred yards or so, we found another marker at the edge of a newish bedroom community. Rather than the clarity of a single directional arrow, this seemed a slogan or logo of some sort, with multiple arrows extending in various directions like a hydra’s head. I assume that the trail markers of a particular area are the responsibility of the municipality. Ōtsu had no doubt decided that it would design a unique, yet counter intuitive, sign. This decision, encapsulated in a single simple wooden post, led us first about twenty minutes up a steep mountain road to a lonely shrine, then later, coupled with some helpful, yet incorrect advice of a local old-timer, further into the mountains along a different road, into the waiting arms of those storm clouds occupying the valley. We sat a while under the gate of a Jodō temple. (I smell a metaphor here. The major tenet of that sect’s belief is that in times of trouble, one can find refuge in the Sutras. Which to them seems be sufficient since their closed-off temples definitely won’t offer refuge from the elements.)

The sky cleared as we backtracked, and we were directed to yet a third route, which proved correct. We quickly grew lost again, and by a series of frustrated guesswork, made it through a lush city park, past a few posh condos and into the woods where useful signs resumed. This traverse through the ‘burbs should’ve taken 15 minutes at most, but it took us over two hours, all due to a single sign. I fumed the whole while. Why erect signs at all, if you plan to space them so far apart that they’re impossible to follow? Apparently somebody agreed with me, since the only other marker we saw had had most of that confusing hydra symbol torn away to reveal at least the correct cardinal direction, if not the path itself. (This loss of direction is metaphor number two. The scenery below and around us was of monoliths of wealth, in the forms of recreational facilities, stadiums, and towering apartment blocks. Yet the town chose not to fund a few yen for decent signs. And the three local people who we asked directions didn’t have any idea what we were talking about. Again, those trappings of modern society serving as disconnect from things on a human scale and our more localized “place in space.” But isn’t a map or trail marker also technology? Am I being a hypocrite to rely on these rather than in the intuitive skills which define me as human?) All I know is that once back in the woods, on a well-marked path, my shoulders fell away from my ears, and I was again taken over by the enjoyment that a good walk can bring.

At the border here of new and old, we found a small temple with uneven stone stairs and a weathered gate whose thatch was peeling in the corners. The garden beyond was overgrown, and behind it were a series of grave stones dotting the forest floor. To my surprise, I had stumbled upon the final resting place of Ernest Fenollosa. I’d known he was buried somewhere in Shiga, but I hardly expected to find him here behind a seemingly forgotten temple. Next to him were the graves of Tendai convert William Sturges and of James Woods, an early American scholar of the Yoga Sutras. Nearby was a bench offering views of the buildings of Ōtsu city stacked below. We watched dark storm clouds coming over from the direction of Hiei.

When the thunder and lightning began, we rushed through high grass to a small shelter I had spotted through the trees. It turned out to be a bell tower, but oddly, the bell had been removed. The long wooden striker still hung from a rusted chain, but the platform on which we sat was cracked and uneven. The bell seemed to have been taken quite a long time ago. I pictured Nobunaga, in his rush up to burn out the Sōhei of Enryaku-ji, had melted the bell down as iron for his guns. The elderly woman in the temple itself later provided the answer. During the Second World War, the bell had indeed been taken to be melted down for munitions, but had never been used. After the war it was to be returned, but as the workmen had not wanted to carry it further up the steep hill, it was taken only as far as neighboring Enman-in temple, who refused to give it back to the proper owner. I thought it amazing that one temple would steal the bell of another (not too surprising if you remember the enmity between the Tendai sects around here), but upon arriving at Enman-in twenty minutes later I quickly understood. It was the gaudiest temple I’ve ever seen, with a massive concrete design under a bright neon sign. Money and profit seems to be the driving force of faith here; even the kanji can be read as “Full of money.” They had a Soba shop on the grounds, plus offered services for Mizukō Jizō, these services for aborted fetuses being big business. Hundreds of flags dotted the courtyard, the names of the business donors flapping in the wind. It was if an old samurai army were camped in this concrete fortress. And of course there it was, the bell. Rather than being housed in the usual simple platform of wood and stone, it instead hung from three massive steel rods fashioned into a curved pyramid. The insult was complete. My wife and I expressed our disgust at the well where worshippers purified their hands and mouths. Being a follower of Buddhism, I have great respect for those rituals which give the sect definition. Yet today, I redefined the form by using these ladles to wash off my muddy feet and sandals.

Thus cleansed, we soon came to nearby Mii-dera, one of my favorite places in Japan. The rest of the day was spent wandering these temples, admiring the simple beauty of the wooden Buddhas, and trying to coax the caged peacocks to open their tails. Later, up at Kannon-do, we meditated before the many armed statue of the god(dess), noting how it would look right at home in India, the land of this deity’s birth. All the while the fluorescent lights above droned like a tamboura, an instrument from that far-off land, out of whose seemingly monotonous tones melodies are born, much as how thoughts, and the moods that accompany them, come out of the unceasing constant of Reality.

Featured writing

They Will Bloom When You Die

March 9, 2022

by Douglas Anthony Cooper

Where a woman, hand full of sunflowers
Dwarfs a tyrant, shames a soldier
Lays a curse upon cowards
There we who are small and watching
Merely watching, safe behind screens
Are maybe redeemed
And blue will rise over yellow

And we who are breathing, poorly
Air sick with lies, alone among friends
And starved of wonder
Look to a woman defiant
Hand full of seeds, tall with contempt
Who commands us to grow
And blue will rise over yellow

And they who are breathing, ablaze
Still breathing, and breathing
In spite of the traitors who tell them
And tell them again and again
That breathing is over
They will inspire the suffering air
And blue will rise over yellow

Where a woman, hand full of miracle
Seeds in her palm grown to flowers and now
To a field unconquered
Stands among liars and is by her standing
A truth, then the sky is the sky
And the field a nation
The fact of a luminous nation

And blue will rise over yellow


******************

Douglas Anthony Cooper has written four novels, and his writing and photography have appeared in publications worldwide, including New York Magazine, Travel + Leisure, Food & Wine, and Rolling Stone.

See his website here.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

The Baby Shower

February 26, 2022

(an excerpt from The Baseball Widow)
By Suzanne Kamata

Christine loved Trina’s oak table. She loved this kitchen with its American-sized refrigerator decorated with animal magnets and children’s art, its scent of baked bread, and the cross-stitch samplers on the wall. She loved Trina’s dishes, painted with blue Chinese landscapes, like the ones that she ate from at her grandmother’s house when she was a child. She remembered that once her oyster casserole or Thanksgiving sweet potatoes were cleared away, she’d wondered about the pagoda on her plate, wondered what it would be like to visit such a place. And then finally she had. She’d been to China, Thailand, Singapore, Malaysia, and of course, Japan, where she now lived. Ironically, although Christine had fled America in search of the exotic and adventurous, Trina’s Blue Willow patterned dishes, this room itself, now filled her with yearning for all that she had left behind.

“How was the send-off?” Elizabeth asked from across the table, snapping Christine out of her daydream. Elizabeth looked great, as usual. Even though she’d given birth just a little over a month ago, she managed to keep her bottle-blonde hair touched up, and her poplin blouses ironed and unstained. Right now the baby slept nestled in her arms.

Christine smiled. “It was fine. Nobody cried. Not even me.” She’d thought that sending her son off on his first day of elementary school – on foot no less, since the children were required to walk to school in groups — would have been more wrenching, but what she’d felt was mostly relief. For the first four years of her life, her daughter Emma had been in and out of hospitals, and then there was that one terrifying week when both kids were in the ICU at the same time with pneumonia. But now they were healthy and sturdy and ready to be out in the world. Plus, it was nice to finally have some time for herself.

Trina gently tapped a spoon against her “Support Our Troops” mug. “I hereby call this meeting of the American Wives’ Club to order,” she said.

Christine raised her coffee cup to Trina in a toast. “The American Wives’ Club” – AWC for short – wasn’t an official organization. There was no club secretary, no president. They got enough of protocol with the Japanese P.T.A. and Kodomo Kai and other Japanese mothers’ groups. In reality, the AWC was composed of the three of them – Christine, Elizabeth, and Trina, wife of a Japanese professor, whose two chestnut-haired children, not yet school-aged, were now under the table clawing at knees. Elizabeth’s eldest child, a daughter, was in the second grade at a private academy with an English immersion program.

Although coffee was enough of an excuse for a gathering, on this morning they’d gotten together to give Elizabeth a baby shower. According to Miss Manners, a baby shower was supposed to be held in the eighth month of pregnancy, but etiquette be damned; the members of the AWC put enough time and energy into keeping track of and adhering to Japanese customs (exactly how much to spend on a summer gift for one’s boss, where to stand in an elevator, which days were inauspicious for hospital visits, etc.). Sometimes a little anarchy was just the right thing. The belated celebration was also out of deference to Christine, whose daughter had been fourteen weeks ahead of schedule, during Christine’s seventh month of pregnancy. For days, weeks, months, Emma had struggled in an incubator at the university hospital, and they had all learned not to take a baby’s easy delivery and good health for granted.

The doorbell rang then, and Trina jumped up. “Oh, I forgot to tell you all. I met a woman at the library the other day. I thought she might like to join us. She’s Canadian, but I think we can make an exception. We can be the North American Wives.”

“Yes, of course,” Elizabeth said. “The more, the merrier.”

Trina went to open the door, and the others moved their chairs to make room for another guest. Their heads turned when a slender, pale woman with strawberry blonde hair stepped into the room. She held a little boy of about three by the hand. Christine could tell by his eyes and brownish hair that he was biracial (“hafu” as the Japanese said) just as all of their children were.

“Hi, I’m Sophia Lang,” she said. She extended her hand to Christine, and then to Elizabeth.

“Sophia has just signed on as an adjunct at Tokushima University,” Trina said. “Her husband is a scientist at Otsuka.” Christine nodded. They were all familiar with the pharmaceutical company, one of the area’s largest employers, and maker of that ubiquitous, ridiculously named sports drink, Pocari Sweat. Elizabeth’s husband worked there, too. “They just moved here from – where was it?”

“Maryland,” Sophia said. “My husband is originally from Tokushima. We thought it’d be nice for Kai, here, to get to know his father’s family better. And also, work on his Japanese language skills. My husband asked for a transfer, and here we are!”

She had that fresh-off-the-plane look about her. Christine had read somewhere about the stages of culture shock – she’d experienced them herself. First, was the euphoric falling-in-love stage, where everything was new and exciting. Pretty soon the shine would wear off, and irritation would set in. She’d get sick of having little kids point at her hair, and of people asking if she could use chopsticks. She’d discover that the bank machines closed early, at nine p.m., and that if she didn’t have her laundry out by eight in the morning (so late!), the neighbors would chat about her.

“Have a seat,” Trina said, ushering Sophia into a chair. “And Kai, maybe you’d like to go play with Misa and Kenta. Kids! Out from under the table! Show this nice little boy your toys!”

Trina’s two and three-year olds emerged, giggling and ran out of the room. Kai looked up at his mother for confirmation, before scrambling after them.

“Ah, peace at last,” Trina said, pouring coffee for Sophia into a University of Virginia mug.

They went around the table and introduced themselves.

“I’m Elizabeth Tanigawa, from Kentucky. I’m doing some research about expatriates in Tokushima,” she drawled. “I’m planning on writing a book or an essay or something.” She was always immersed in some project. For awhile, it had been indigo dyeing, and before that pottery, and even longer ago, she’d been obsessed with local folklore. During the latter phase, she’d compiled dozens of stories about trickster raccoon dogs, but she’d never tried to publish them. It was just something to keep her busy.

“Well, that sounds interesting,” Sophia said politely. “I didn’t know there were enough expats here for a book.”

It’s true that there were hardly any foreigners in Tokushima Prefecture. Christine had gone days without seeing another non-Japanese in the capital city, weeks, even. Although bridges now linked the island of Shikoku via sparsely populated Awaji Island with Honshu, there were no high speed bullet trains zipping across the island. There were few jobs for foreign women outside of teaching English or pouring drinks in hostess bars, and tourists from abroad rarely added the island to their agenda.

“Oh, but there have been lots,” Elizabeth said, and here, she nodded at Christine, “missionaries from South Carolina, an entire camp of German Prisoners of War, and there was also a Portuguese sailor who settled here and married the little Japanese girl that was his housemaid. Kinda like Madame Butterfly. There’s a museum about his life up on top of Mount Bizan.”

“A girl?”
“She was quite a bit younger,” Christine put in. “But she was an adult. I’m sure she knew what she was doing.” In truth, Christine thought the sailor, who appeared in photos with a long white beard, was way too old for his bride, but she suddenly felt perversely defensive of all things Tokushima. It was her home now, after all.

When it was her turn, she said, “I’m originally from Michigan, most recently from South Carolina. I’ve been living here for ten years. My husband is a high school baseball coach.”
“We call him the ‘imaginary husband,’” Trina said, “because no one has ever seen them together.”

Christine forced herself to join in the laughter, even though she was the one who’d first come up with the moniker.

“She’s a baseball widow,” Elizabeth explained to the bemused Sophia, who hadn’t been in Japan long enough to understand how demanding high school sports could be. There was no such thing as a baseball season. Once students joined the club, they were busy practicing and playing all year round. The only days off were during the ten days of winter vacation. The rest of the time, even during the “off-season,” from the end of October till about the beginning of February, they had training sessions every day after school and on weekends. Hideki was almost never home.

“I saw your husband on television,” Elizabeth said. “Just a couple of weeks ago. His team made it to the quarter-finals, didn’t it?”

Christine nodded. “Yeah, I was there. Up in the bleachers.” Before the kids had come along, she’d gone to all of his games, but they were too young to enjoy baseball. The one time she’d brought Emma to the stadium, she was dismayed to find that there was no wheelchair access, even though the arena was relatively new. She’d had to ask a couple of high school boys to help carry Emma and her wheels up the concrete steps, into the stands. And then of course, after glimpsing Daddy at the sidelines and waving furiously with no response, both Emma and Koji had grown quickly bored. Now Christine mostly watched the games on TV. Once the number of teams was whittled down to eight, the games were broadcast on the local NHK station, or at least public access TV. It was hard to concentrate, though, when Koji and Emma were grabbing at the remote control, pushing for cartoons. The other day, Christine had asked her mother-in-law to babysit so that she could watch Hideki’s team live. Even though they’d lost, she’d felt emotionally involved in the game. Being there made her feel closer to Hideki, almost as if they were in it together.

“Do you have any children?” Sophia asked, bringing her cup to her lips. Christine saw that her fingernails had been manicured. A diamond glinted off her ring finger. In a couple of months, she won’t be wearing that, Christine thought. She’d figure out that it was way too gaudy for rural Japan.

“Yes, two. A boy and a girl.”
“Do they go to school?” Sophia asked.
“Koji’s at Aizumi West. He just started first grade today.”
“And your daughter? You said you have a little girl?”

Christine nodded. “Her name is Emma, after Queen Emma of Hawaii.” Christine and Hideki had gotten married at a plantation on Oahu. Afterwards, they’d done some sightseeing around the islands, and Christine had become captivated by the biography of Queen Emma, who was both Anglo and Hawaiian – a multicultural woman who did good deeds, a mixed race royal. The perfect role model and namesake, Christine thought. “My daughter goes to the kindergarten at the School for the Deaf.”

“Oh!” Surprise and pity flashed across Sophia’s face. By now, Christine was used to apologies and embarrassment at the revelation of her daughter’s disabilities. She forced a smile to show that it was no big deal, that there was no need to feel sorry for them. Everything was fine!

“Have you thought about taking her to the States?” Sophia asked. “My husband and I had a little scare after an ultrasound, and we decided that if our child had any handicap, we would stay in the U.S. Japan is a couple decades behind in that area, isn’t it?”

Christine felt the blood rush to her face. “We’re keeping our options open,” she murmured, though that wasn’t exactly true. Hideki was passionate about his job and she would never ask him to quit. He had become something of a local celebrity. People respected him, just as they seemed to respect her for being married to him. Whenever she dropped by the baseball field, say, to bring Hideki his forgotten cell phone, or drop off Koji to “help out” with Saturday afternoon practice sessions, the players doffed their caps and bowed to her, the coach’s wife. It made her feel like a First Lady. More importantly, as a public school teacher, Hideki was assured lifetime employment, and he also had good health insurance. With a kid like Emma, you had to have ample coverage. Christine suspected that with all of her pre-existing conditions, Emma was uninsurable in the States. And last, but not least, as the only and eldest son of his widowed mother, Hideki was expected to look after her and act, when necessary, as head of the family, representing the Yamada clan at weddings and funerals that his mother didn’t want to attend. He had responsibilities.

Not every family had the resources – or desire – to up and move across the world every time circumstances changed. And yet, Christine had often wondered if Japan was the best place for their daughter. Or for their son, for that matter. At times, she thought they’d be better off in Sweden, where parents were required by law to teach their deaf children sign language. (Here in Japan, Hideki was too busy to study anything but baseball stats, and Christine often had to interpret between father and daughter.) Other times she fantasized about moving to Hawaii, where multicultural was the norm.

“Well, then, ladies,” Trina said, clapping her hands together. “I think it’s time for some games.”

***********************

American Suzanne Kamata has lived in Tokushima Prefecture for over 30 years. She is the award-winning author or editor of 15 books, including, most recently, the novel THE BASEBALL WIDOW (Wyatt-Mackenzie Publishing, 2021) and the story-in-verse WAITING (Kelsay Books, 2022). She is an associate professor at Naruto University of Education. Her homepage can be accessed here.

Glimpses of a Unique Past

February 16, 2022

REVIEW by Rebecca Otowa

THE WIDOW, THE PRIEST AND THE OCTOPUS HUNTER
By Amy Chavex (Tuttle 2022) Available on Amazon

Amy Chavez has had an unusual life in Japan. Beginning in a teaching position in Okayama, a city between Kobe and Hiroshima, she moved to an island in the nearby Japan Sea known as Shiraishi (White Rock) Island, where she has now lived for a quarter of a century. She is a familiar figure on the island, along with her husband Paul, living near the port and operating the Mooo Bar, a little café right on the beach, with a sandy floor and rough wooden tables, catering to the dwindling tourist-and-beach-lovers’ trade.

This latest book of hers is a labor of love which has been in the making for many years. With a population of only 430 souls (at the time of writing), mostly old folks, Shiraishi is one of those rural communities destined to disappear with this generation. Before that happens, Chavez has made it her mission to record the stories of many of these people. The result is a book that is not only a valuable peek into the lives of Japanese in the last century, but also a very entertaining read. Each story is so different that I won’t pick up individual ones here, but try to convey a general idea of topic and feeling.

The book is redolent of one of Japanese culture’s several ground notes, the ocean. There is a wonderful sea tang in every word. Those of us lucky enough to have experienced at first hand this island, or indeed any slightly down-at-heel Japanese seaside community, will immediately be able to picture the scenes she shows us. These are places of weathered wood buildings facing the sea across a narrow road; plastic buckets, nets, and floats piled up against the sides of houses; ferry boats with chains and ropes, and rust showing through multiple layers of white paint; large geometrical concrete blocks spilled across the beach like a giant child’s toy construction; smells of fish, salt and seaweed from the catch spread out or hung up to dry everywhere. On Shiraishi these images are augmented by the inland communities surrounded by rice fields and vegetable patches, the shrines and local gods immortalized in stone markers, and the seaside quarries on the other side of the island, which provided its name back in the days when the prized “white stone” was cut and carried by boat to build castle walls and other lasting structures far away.

Amy talked to many residents of the island, recorded the conversations, translated them, and worked them up into some thirty vignettes telling their stories. Truly a long and, I imagine, deeply satisfying project. There are some story arcs that span the entire book, but I won’t give these away here, preferring to let readers discover them for themselves.

If you wish to know more of Amy’s own story, the Foreword, Introduction and Epilogue, as well as the penultimate story, “The Foreigner”, talk about how she felt on experiencing such an island community for the first time, and the twists and turns in the road as she gradually accustomed herself to it. And it to her. Her description of the local authority who decides which “people from elsewhere” (yosomono) will be allowed to take up residence here, was striking to me. The culture would definitely be vulnerable to “undesirables”, especially perfect strangers with no relatives or family ties to the place. (The author herself was looked at askance in the early days, as she describes, for loud barbecue parties and blaring music in front of her house.) At the same time, depopulation threatens to put paid to centuries-old traditions. This dichotomy of needs – the economic need for “new blood” versus the need of the residents to exist quietly in familiar, traditional surroundings – is felt in many rural communities throughout Japan, but the very isolation and insularity of this place as she describes it make the situation here particularly precarious and disturbing. The island residents probably see their situation as symbolized by the danger of the giant boulders dotting the hillsides, poised to come rolling down onto their houses, as indeed happened to Amy herself (“The Foreigner”). These people live between a (white) rock and a hard place, neither of the two choices of the dichotomy of needs being feasible for more than a few more years into the future.

Like many of us, she wonders what the next years hold in store. “Those previously dedicated to evening strolls along the road… have gradually bent over like rice heads at harvest time. I’ve watched my neighbors’ flawless skin furrow to deep wrinkles, and I know they must be observing the same in me.” Not only do aging rural people have to contend with the indignities of their years, they also have to cope with the sadness of cultural discontinuity – the neighborhood will not continue when they themselves die, a continuity which used to be the reassuring norm; the future is a blur of unfamiliar sights, customs and materials, with no one to mark and remember their lives of hard work and faithfulness to the old rituals and traditions handed down from time immemorial. It’s really heartbreaking, though probably inevitable. I myself live in such a community and family, I myself am aging and have watched my neighbors age. Our children have escaped to wider horizons and more choice; the continuity of centuries is breaking up. My own house, 350 years old, is one of only two of that vintage left in our area. The structures may endure, but the lifestyle they were built for will not, as they are increasingly demolished outright or at best taken over by people who have no connection to the land that spawned them.

But I digress. For me the value of Amy’s wonderful collection of stories lies here, that these tales of real human beings have been lovingly collected and preserved in this form. We too may enter into their lives and experience what they felt to be important, from carefully maintained octopus pots and fish nets to wedding photos and kimonos in drawers that immediately evoke memories of occasions and dances. The people in these stories aren’t just quaint puppets dancing for our pleasure. Personal idiosyncracies, sufferings, and joys abound; they could be the inhabitants of any human community of the past 300 or so years. At the same time, their world has been even more traditional and slow to change than mainland communities, and each small detail of their lives has been preserved here for us to enjoy, savor, and ultimately, sigh over. It’s a book that breathes of the sea and those who make their living on it, and a unique relationship to the pullulating life of “over there” (the mainland). One comes away happy to have made the acquaintance of these strong, no-nonsense souls. At the same time, one feels the melancholy of inevitable endings.

Thank you, Amy, for writing a book that allows us to feel these things by keeping a vanishing culture safely cupped within these pages as in an octopus pot.

There is a fascinating section with old photographs, and also lovely line drawings by Okae Harada. 

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Three Poems by Andrew Ashleigh Kozelka

February 14, 2022

Japan

Sitting in an office, staring through the long windows
Of the next building’s offices, I see cold sky,
I see black mountains flat on it like stencils.

Through lower windows in that same slab
I see a line of office window river panels,
The river brownish blue, and surpassingly calm,

Intricately-placidly rippled by, one guesses,
A subtle wind, a dull iridescence, a factoid.
I see a few red-tiled roofs below the river, too.

Then I’m standing still in my grey business suit,
In a garden, before a stone shrine, as a bullet
Train passes on an elevated track behind me.

Somewhere, a factory echoes with company pride;
I go to a convenience store. The bright J-pop
Field, on gecko-steps: on round pink toes.


The Eye Itself

The forces of plenty
Had unleashed flowers and weeds and a coat of moss
Across the stepping stones, where minute snails
And lip-fat earthworms red as hog’s blood
Made their voluptuous-lugubrious way. Nearby
Stood a cigarette machine, being serviced
By a gaunt brown ramrod of a man,
Who seemed ever-so remote,
Like the essence of all humanity, man-mode, old school.

I watched him in respectful silence, as he loaded
The cellophaned boxes. I waited to see
If he would stop, after, and have a smoke.

But he kept going, his udder of change
Clanking loosely at his belt of tools.

Soon he was gone, and only the garden was there.


But Anyway

The old sailor, with
The nasal twang
Of a ten-year-old, sleeps
Swaddled by a map blanket
His mother gave him
Before his voyage out some
Thirty years back. He’s in love
With a Russian hostess
And spends all his jar money
On buying overpriced drinks
At her club, called Striped House
Because painted like a candy cane.
The moral of this story is, but anyway
All this happened in Tokyo,
1966.

**********************

Andrew has self-published two previous collections–The Ages, which was a finalist for the National Poetry Series, and Of the Scaffold. He writes, ‘The new book is meant to complete a trilogy investigating various obsessions, including political and religious violence; the three poems offered here are from what I guess could be called my “Japan obsession” ‘.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

A Rock has a Hundred Faces

February 7, 2022

by Stephen Benfey

—A rock has a hundred faces, the Japanese gardener said.

I thought of asking why not two-hundred, but this was one of Sawamura’s greatest hits, up there with Nature is always right, the latter spoken in his Kyoto-accented English.

—Sensei, I said, —all this nice weather and no jobs. What’s up?”

—Keeping a low profile.

I lifted an eyebrow.

—For a few more weeks. Safer that way, he said. —Besides, that last job paid well—— too well.

—The big boss’s place in Ashiya? I said.

Ashiya, the posh hillside neighborhood above Kobe, home to Osaka’s business elite. Think the Peak in HK, the Hollywood Hills, sunny Montagnola overlooking Lake Lugano (where Hesse wrote Siddhartha).

Sawamura nodded, stuck a Short Hope cigarette between his teeth and struck a kitchen match from the big red and yellow box on the table of the tiny jazz joint. He drew in, the tip glowing red. He exhaled a pea-soup of smoke.

—You remember when I asked you to go buy me more cigarettes and have a coffee with the change.

—Sort of. So?

—A stone has a thousand faces, he said.

I nodded, ignoring the ten-fold proliferation.

—You need to read the rock, find which face is right, he said. —Then you bury ninety percent of the rock.

Why, I wondered, would you bury nine tenths of a boulder that cost more than a BMW.

—It’s what we always do, he said. —So the right face pops and the others don’t intrude.

—Right. I nodded, awed at the aesthetics-über-alles audacity, embarrassed that I’d never noticed, … suspecting that ninety percent was a figure of speech.

—Well, our client didn’t realize how much digging we’d be doing.

—He was clear about the location, I said.

—Yeah, very specific. Too specific. Something about Granny wanting it there. Not the placement I had in mind. But who’s to argue? Not with the big boss.

—So?

—So, if I had bothered to wonder why … Never mind. So during our usual after-lunch nap I took a shovel to check the ground. See what was under the topsoil. Whether we’d need heavy equipment.

—Obaasan, Granny, the boss’ mother, was watching me, holding her bamboo pipe, lighting a bowl now and then. Kneeling, butt-to-heels, on the engawa, the wraparound veranda.

Sawamura gave me a long stare. —This is where things get strange, he said.

—I start digging and I hear this sharp crack, like maybe she dropped the pipe.

—I turn around, real casual, like I hadn’t noticed. Obaasan is holding her pipe upside down and backwards, pointing the stem at me.

Sawamura clamped his cigarette between his teeth, opened, then closed his right fist, forefinger pointing at me. I watched as his finger curled back on itself. A shiver hit the base of my skull.

—I bow, Sawamura said, —to apologize——for what I don’t know. Granny doesn’t take her eyes off me, so I bow again, deeper, holding it. Out to the side I glimpse the boss. I look up. The boss thrusts his hands into his pockets and steps out, eyes narrowed, cool, like a cat creeping up on a pigeon, smelling blood. You don’t ever want to see that. Civilians, they stagger backward, soil their knickers, buckle. Why the dread? You wish your time was up, but it isn’t, not yet. And the guy’s doing diddly-squat, just walking, hands in pockets, all the time in the world.

It was like I was viewing the scene in Cinemascope …

—Just in case, listen closely, Sawamura said. —Here’s what to do.

I ignored an urge to go to the little boys room.

Sawamura hardened his gaze. —Here’s what you do, he said again.

I nodded.

—You kowtow, and don’t say anything, don’t move a muscle. Forehead to the ground, kowtow.

I nodded again.

—The boss. I can’t see him but he’s standing over me. ‘Sensei,’ he says. The boss called me sensei. ‘Did I tell you to dig?’ I stay still, dead still. ‘I told you to set the rock here,’ he says. I hold my pose. Then, his voice calmer, ‘Why are you digging?’ he asks. Without lifting my head, I say, ‘A rock has ten-thousand faces. Only one is the right face.’ I wait for that to sink in. Then, ‘The other faces must be buried to quench their jealousy, to ward off evil spirits.’

This was a new twist.

—The boss hunkers down, lifts my chin with what’s left of his pinky. The ink starts at his wrist and keeps going.

Reflexively, I checked Sawamura’s fingers. All digits accounted for.

—Then he says, ‘Okay, sensei, do what I say. Bring in the power shovel and get your long-haired gaijin yarou out of here long enough to finish the tricky part. Tell your crew to keep napping.’

Being called a foreign a-hole was par for the course.

—He’s this close to my ear, Sawamura said, spreading his thumb and forefinger.

—His stump’s raising my head so I have to look Granny in the eye. ‘Of course,’ I say through my teeth. He drops my chin.

Rumor had it she was the real power behind the underworld throne, at least until her hated daughter-in-law edged her out. Only a toothless Obaasan could stomach the atrocities ascribed to her, they said, circular logic and misogyny be damned.

One that lodged in memory was the Osaka ramen cart’s noodle broth made with human hands. Stewed from human hands. Cooking, clearly a woman’s idea, ipso facto Granny’s. Why hand soup? To erase fingerprints and, perhaps, to indicate the crime: tenuki, a sloppy job, literally “hands removed.”

Months later, a wrist-disarticulated corpse was found in a bamboo grove near Takarazuka, town of the eponymous century-old, all-female (see!) musical revue. The forensic pathologist said severance was by chuuka houchou, the wide-bladed Chinese cleaver used for chopping pig ribs and poultry into finger-length pieces you can eat by hand.

Sawamura was staring at me.

—How many? I asked, swallowing.

—Who’s counting? I dug it clean. Then I dug deeper. Pushed the parts down low and laid some soil on top. That was when you got back.

I remembered. Everyone joined in, pulling and pushing the boulder swinging from a chain hoist on a tripod.

Sawamura gave a tight smile and pulled out another Short Hope.

—Wakatta kai?

I copied his grimace, nodding. —Wakarimashita, I said. Got it.

—Homma kai na? Sawamura said. You sure?

—Hai, I said.

—Hey, he said, putting the cigarette between his teeth, —let’s live it up tonight. Go to a hostess bar.

No, I thought, not that B.S.

Sawamura could see I wasn’t enthusiastic. —Or a geisha party, he said.

I’d never been to one.

—And you can bring your foreign girlfriend, he said.

—I don’t think so, I said.

He lit the cigarette.

—What was that about evil spirits? I asked.

—You’d be surprised, he said, puffing on his Short Hope, —how the slim chance of avoiding death gets your creative juices flowing.

—Ten-thousand faces, I said, in a flat voice.

—I had to up the ante, raise the stakes, Sawamura said, —for him to listen.

—Nine-tenths of every rock? Really?

—What do you think? Sawamura said.

—So what’s to worry?

Sawamura looked at me like I was slow. —What if Obaasan is worried? he said.

Coda:

The porcelain-faced, crimson-lipped geiko, as geisha are called on their home turf, was filling my thimble of a sake cup for the umpteenth time. Up close, her hairdo was adorable, like a panda.

I turned to Sawamura. —Sensei, I said. —One thing I don’t understand.

He winced, exasperated. I was ignoring TPO, the ne plus ultra of Japanese etiquette: time, place, occasion.

—Isn’t it strange? I said. —Everywhere else, the wife brings out tea and snacks for our mid-morning and afternoon break. But at the big boss’s place … the whole time we’re there, I never saw her once.

—You weren’t sitting on the power shovel, he said.

My hand jerked, spilling sake on my lap. The geiko began daintily dabbing the wet spot with a hot oshibori.

Sawamura crowed at my come-uppance. —Now, he said, —will you shut up and enjoy the party?

###

Nina no Hanami by Eishi Hosoda (1756-1829). Ukyio-e style illustration of Japanese women viewing cherry blossom in a traditional garden. Digitally enhanced. (Public domain)

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Yin-yang, symbolism and the Gion Festival

February 2, 2022

by Jann Williams (January 26, 2022)

Identifying the oldest yin-yang symbol in Japan has been an ongoing passion of mine. The philosophy of yin-yang (J. in-yo) was formally introduced into Japan in the 6th century AD and still permeates contemporary culture. One might imagine that the two-tone interlocking representation of yin-yang, created in the late 14th century in China and now recognised worldwide, was likely to be adopted in Japan. Yet extensive searches for the symbol have uncovered only a few unrelated examples in the pre-Meiji period; that is, prior to 1868. Even after that date there appears to be no widespread or systematic use of the iconic symbol to represent in-yo in Japan.

The oldest example of a yin-yang symbol I’ve discovered to date in Japan was hiding in plain sight. It is part of a very large embroidery created in Kyoto in 1798 (Kansei 10) that is displayed on the back of the Hoshoyama float at the famous Gion Festival. If readers are aware of earlier examples of the yin-yang symbol in Japan I would love to hear about them.

Catherine Pasawarat, a member of Writers in Kyoto and author of the first comprehensive book in English about the Gion Festival (Pasawarat 2020), has generously shared this image of the Hoshoyama embroidery. It is called, she tells me, the ‘Congratulatory/longevity star chart brocade’ (“寿星図綴錦”, Toshiseizu tsudzure ni shiki or ことぶき　せいず つづれ　にしき).

The tapestry on the back of the Hoshoyama float is 2.03 x 1.59 m in size.

Many sites on the internet, particularly in Japanese, describe the textile as depicting Fukurokuju (the gentleman with the bald elongated head) and Benzaiten (the woman holding the child) with Karako and his friends (Tang Chinese children). Both Fukurokuju and Benzaiten are Japanese deities, with origins in China and India respectively, and represent two of the Seven Lucky Gods. Several deities in Japan and China have large bald heads, symbolising wisdom. This helps explain some of the debates around the identity of individuals with this prominent feature.

The 1798 embroidery is considered the earliest datable Japanese copy of a Chinese tapestry (Yoshida 2018). It replaced another textile – a ‘Sennin-zu’ (hermit picture) created in China during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644). The original embroidery still exists as a hanging scroll. The only image available online, on the Kyoto City website, is very low resolution. My wish is to one day see this ancient treasure in person in Kyoto. If it depicts the same image as the 1798 textile then the yin-yang symbol would have been displayed much earlier in Japan. Of interest, the symbol is never mentioned in any descriptions of the ‘send off’ embroidery I’ve seen.

The textiles that do generate considerable attention flank the sides and front of the Hoshoyama float. Based on sketches by the famous Japanese artist Maruyama Okyo (1733-1795), they illustrate Chinese classics that include sages and fantastic animals such as the Phoenix and Tiger. The original tapestries were completed in Anei 2 (1773); high quality reproductions are now used during the parade of floats held on July 17th. The Mizuhiki, which sits above these tapestries on the Hoshoyama float, is made from Chinese Ming dynasty clothing with peacock feathers sown into the embroidery. It is very rare.

There is a strong argument, I believe, that the imagery adorning the back of the Hoshoyama float is of Chinese origin rather than representing Japanese deities. Drawing on extensive studies by Mary H. Fong (published in 1983) the three male sages intently examining the yin-yang symbol most likely represent Fu, Lu and Shou, commonly known as the Three Stars (San Xing). Fong’s publication traces the popularity of these gods – who represent happiness, wealth and longevity – from their creation in the late Ming dynasty to their widespread use as New Year pictures in 20th century China. She includes three images of these gods gazing at the yin-yang symbol, including one from the British Museum (BM). The same BM image is used to illustrate the “Three Stars of Happiness” in the ‘Yin and Yang’ section in Storm (2011).

The Chinese silk scroll that ‘The Three Stars’ adorn is part of the extensive William Anderson collection of Japanese and Chinese paintings that the BM purchased in 1881. A section of the scroll is reproduced below according to the terms of the Creative Commons licence (see here). The image on the BM website excludes a white crane sitting on a large pine tree (both symbols of long life) that towers above the sages (see Fong, Figure 12 for the complete image).

Fong firmly dismisses Christie’s 1968 description of this image as ‘three scholars studying Yin and Yang’, noting that the figure with the tall pointed head is obviously Shou Xing, the star god representing longevity and associated with the South Pole. She would presumably apply the same argument to Anderson’s 1886 description of this BM tapestry as a representation of Lao Tszu, Sakyamuni and Confucius. Fong discusses similarities and differences between illustrations of the three religions and the three star gods in her paper. She is in no doubt that the hanging scroll/kakemono in the BM represents the Three Stars.

So, is the earliest representation of yin-yang in Japan (discovered so far) being viewed by the Three Stars? The name of the Hoshoyama tapestry is tantalising, referring as it does to a ‘star chart brocade’. Another pointer to the Gion tapestry representing Chinese deities is that the 1798 embroidery is, as I understand it, a copy of the original Chinese tapestry displayed on the float; one question still to be answered is whether the images on the two embroideries are the same. Additionally, none of the descriptions of a similar image in the British Museum refer to Fukurokuju or Benzaiten.

As for the identity of the woman on the side of the 1798 embroidery, different options are being explored. Several images of the Three Stars have women in them yet nowhere, so far, is their name revealed. If Professor Fong was alive she could have confirmed if the Gion tapestry represents Fu, Lu and Shou and identify the woman holding the young child. Unfortunately the great scholar is no longer with us.

My interest in the Gion tapestry arose from a desire to better understand the symbolism of yin-yang/in-yo in Japan. In-yo is intimately related to the five phases/elements (J. gogyo), also formally introduced to Japan in the 6th century, and hence is of great relevance to my explorations. As someone with endless curiosity, I was keen to discover more about the context and history of the yin-yang symbol depicted in the Hoshoyama embroidery. Much gratitude goes to Catherine Pawasarat for her assistance and support along the way. Whether these musings prove to be accurate or not, my hope is that they stimulate further interest in the fascinating story of the star chart brocade. It is part of a larger and intriguing narrative about the significance of the Gion Festival tapestries to the heritage of Japan and the world.

*********************

References and further information:

Anderson, W. (1886) Descriptive and historical catalogue of a collection of Japanese and Chinese paintings in the British Museum. Printed by Order of the Trustees. Longmans & Co., London.

Christie, A. (1968) Chinese Mythology. Hamlyn Publishers.

Fong, M.H. (1983) The Iconography of the Popular Gods of Happiness, Emolument, and Longevity (Fu Lu Shou). Artibus Asiae, 1983, Vol. 44, No. 2/3. Pp 159-199.

Pawasarat, C. (2020) The Gion Festival: Exploring Its Mysteries. GionFestival.org

Storm, R. (2011) Legends & Myths of India, Egypt, China and Japan. Hermes House, Anness Publishing, Wigston. p. 189.

Williams, J. (2020) Yin-yang in Japan: harmonising vital energies. A blog on the symbolism of yin-yang in Japan. https://elementaljapan.com/2020/04/27/yinyang-in-japan-harmonising-vital-energies/

Yoshida, M. (2018) The Global Influence of China and Europe on Local Japanese Tapestries Mainly from the 19th through Early 20th Centuries. Textile Society of America Symposium Proceedings. 1120. https://digitalcommons.unl.edu/tsaconf/1120

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Meander Meets the New Year

January 30, 2022

by Stephen Benfey

The temple bell rang long and loud that night.

Dogs howled.

Cats like Meander played.

At Shinto Shrines across Japan worshippers pitched cash into slotted boxes, praying for prosperity, health, and success.

When Meander got home he found an empty house. When Helene got home she found a peeved Meander waiting to be fed. “Mein Stubentiger,” she said. My living room tiger.

The next morning Helene sat reading her nenga new year’s cards, warming her legs in the kotatsu.

Meander resented being ignored when his human was enjoying something else.

Male callers soon learned that the bond between a shoe and the aroma of cat poo was forever.

The nerve! Meander thought, especially after last night!

Without warning, Meander leapt, a flying ball of tabby fur. He crash-landed in Helene’s lap, strewing nenga across the tatami.

Helene screeched.

Meander arched his back, bared his teeth and hissed, not at Helene, but at the striped cats surrounding him.

It was no contest. Meander stared down the invaders, freezing them with dread.

Helene knew better than to get involved when a cat’s claws were out.

Meander, triumphant, lifted his tail high and meowed to be let outdoors.

“Ich habe einen Kater!” she said. Kater, a tomcat, was a word Meander understood. It made him feel macho. But why did she say it only when she had a hangover?

Meander imagined what else he could paralyze with his flinty gaze. Maybe the orange carp—forever just beyond reach—in the canal that carried water from Lake Biwa to Nanzenji and then up to Ginkakuji. He headed for the Philosophers Walk,

A few tourists were already strolling in the morning chill.

The Philosophers Walk was known for its cats and Meander didn’t mind having his photo taken. But today was different. The humans wanted to take selfies with him.

Crazy humans!

Meander left the tourists behind. Soon the shops would open and other cats would show up to take the pressure off.

Meander sat near the fishmonger’s, pouncing on windblown leaves, looking forward to fish heads or tails.

The shop’s shutter rolled up and Meander’s hair stood on end! A striped cat, again! Hadn’t he just vanquished them?

Meander was about to give it the gaze when he realized it wasn’t a cat but a fish with the same stripes!

The fishmonger looked at Meander. “Engi no ii koto ya nen!” the woman said. What a lucky omen!

She laid out a feast of fish parts for the saba’tora’neko—mackerel tiger cat. Meander would attract customers like a maneki neko.

This was, after all, the Year of the Tiger.

*******************

Cats Forming the Characters for Catfish
猫の当て字(なまず)　 歌川国芳  
Utagawa Kuniyoshi 1798-1861
(public domain)

Writers in focus

A.J. Pomez

January 25, 2022

Pomez by one-time WiK member, AJ Dickinson

The collection comprises three books of poetry, originally published in 2012 in Kyoto, Japan, with the assistance of John Wells, who did the book design and cover photos.

The printed books, which came out with Blurb, have now been made available to be read online, thanks to John Wells. They are free for perusal and can be accessed at the links that follow.

Those familiar with A.J’s poems will know of the love of life and wordplay that abound amongst the Daoist themes. For a selection of eight of AJ’s best, see this page by the Wisdom Crazed Poet.

Once you have clicked on the link for the books, please proceed as in the instructions below:

****************************************

The Rock People https://www.blurb.com/b/3382388-the-rock-people

Wild Eyes AlwayZ https://www.blurb.com/b/3406690-wild-eyes-alwayz

On Lover Street https://www.blurb.com/b/3382426-on-lover-street

« Older posts Newer posts »

About Writers in Kyoto

Writers in Kyoto is a group of published and self-published English-language authors working or living in the city. It is run on a membership basis and its purpose is for writers to help each other by creating opportunities for promotion, book launches, readings, the exchange of information, and social events. Read more

Recent Comments

    Questions, Feedback?

    Contact us

    WiK on Facebook


    © 2024 Writers In Kyoto

    Based on a theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑