Writers In Kyoto

Page 21 of 64

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Rocks, Moss and Waterfalls

November 3, 2021

From Japan’s Kumano mountains to Luxembourg’s Mullerthal forests

by Robert Weis

Reminiscent of Japan? Photos of the Mullerthal region in Luxembourg (All photos by Robert Weis)


“I got lost even though I know where I am” – these words, from Rebecca Solnit’s intriguing memoir, A Field Guide to Getting Lost, echoed in my head as I continued my solitary walk through the deep forests of the Kumano Mountains. The Kohechi Trail I followed is not uncharted territory; countless hikers and pilgrims have walked these steep slopes over the centuries. But still, I had left behind an entire emotional backpack, and my inner compass had lost its north. In this mental void I certainly felt lost, but it also meant being present, focusing on every step, every tree, every vista on endless ridges of dark green hills and mountains.

The landscape I entered with every step, its deep geography, its intimate essence – the rocks, the mossy ground, the little waterfalls of the mountain streams, all these details seemed to be part of a picture I had seen before. I got lost in these thought trails and knew where I was: suddenly I was walking in my homeland, in shady beech forests, dotted with mossy rocks and small waterfalls. Forest spirits could hide anywhere, under the roots of trees, in dark caves with evocative names like “Hell”, “Robber’s Den”, “The Owl’s Castle”. Legends of the devil, of women dressed in white appearing in moonlight, of goblins digging for fool’s gold, of robber knights waiting for the unwary wanderer, of a weeping cave – these all became a substitute for kami, Shinto forest spirits, cunning fox goddesses, drunken raccoon dogs, and spirits of the unborn that I had encountered in my wanderings through Japanese forests.

The landscape, its genius loci, breathed the same air, the rocks had the same aesthetic quality, the damp, mossy forests the same smell and feel, the little waterfalls the same singing sounds of Nature’s unwritten sutra. Everything flows, and instead of the immense mountains of Kumano, I was now walking on the narrow paths of the forests of the Mullerthal, in Luxembourg, and I had never felt so close to what I loved in the mountains of Japan. The words of a famous fellow traveler came to mind: “Lose the whole world, lose yourself in it, and find your soul.” And I knew where it would always be, in this place that is home, surrounded by rocks, moss and the whisper of water.

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For other outings by Robert Weis, see Mind Games in Arashiyama, or 71 Lessons on Eternity. For more, see his account of a walk from Ohara to Kurama here, or his spiritual journey to Kyoto here. His account of Nicolas Bouvier in Kyoto in the mid-1950s can be read here.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

88 Seconds

November 1, 2021

by Simon Rowe

Matthew Gordon (WikiCommons)

The biggest robbery in Japanese history occurred on March 5, 2004, in Tokyo’s wealthy Ginza ward. It was carried out by a gang belonging to a loosely-knit criminal group of eastern Europeans who have come to be known as the ‘Pink Panther gang’. The loot — the Comtesse de Vendome — has never been recovered. This is a fictionalized reconstruction of the robbery.

Milo Simović brushed back the sleeve of his Armani suit and glanced at his Omega Speedmaster.

11:45 a.m.

The streets of Ginza were already filling with lunchtime crowds. He stepped to the curb and gazed across the street. The Serb was seated at a cafe window counter. She wore a red leather jacket and dark sunglasses and did not acknowledge him.

            Simović looked beyond the skyscrapers of Tokyo’s luxury shopping precinct and into the cloudless March sky. He wondered what the weather was like in Cetinje at that very moment, 4.45 a.m. Montenegro time. His mother would be milking their goats, or stoking the fire to bake ražani for the long day ahead. He felt a pang of homesickness strike at his gut.

            Something hit him on the shoulder.

            ‘Let’s go,’ came a smooth, unhurried voice behind him. It belonged to Dusko Popović, sharp in his Henry Bailey pinstripe and a half-smile softening his lantern jaw.

            ‘The wig looks stupid,’ Simović said.

            ‘Yours too, budalashe.’

No one ever knew who he would be working with. But it was a sure bet there’d be a Cetinje man in the crew; the best jewel thieves came from there. Popović had gone to the same high school but the two men were not close.

            The brief for the Tokyo job had come in late January; the target, logistics, the forged passports, and the Israeli stone cutter — all coordinated by hands higher up. The snatch team consisted of the Montenegrins, Simović and Popović. The Scot, having arrived two weeks earlier, had arranged hotel rooms, acquired four phones and two Russian-made Marakov pistols from a local contact. The Serb, a tall, fair-skinned woman with striking blue eyes, flew in from Paris soon after.

            It was her gaze which now trained on Simović and Popović as they applied their paper hay fever masks and made their way along the teeming sidewalk to the double glass doors of Le Supre-Diamant Coutre de Mamiko.

            At the precise moment Popović tugged on the chrome handle, the Serb’s manicured finger pressed ‘start’ on her Chopard timepiece.

0 seconds

            Inside, Popović moved towards the marble stairway leading to the showroom, acknowledging with a nod the two female attendants dressed in black who stood behind the counter on his left. He pulled a small camera from his pocket and pointed it at the only male employee standing at the foot of the stairs. A flash of light filled the room. ‘Nice, fantastic,’ he said, smiling broadly.

16 seconds

            Momentarily blinded, the attendant returned a weak smile. Simović slipped past him and made his way up the stairs.

25 seconds

At the rear of the showroom, enclosed in a large glass case, the Comtesse de Vendome blazed one hundred candle-strength beneath its display lighting. A week earlier, Simović and the Serb had entered the shop posing as husband and wife, asking to see it — a necklace of the most outrageous beauty, strung with 116 of the world’s purest diamonds and valued at US$31 million. Simović slipped from his belt a five-dollar rock hound’s hammer and with one deft movement smashed the case.

48 seconds

            The attendant uttered a cry and rushed forward. He ran right into the butt of Popović’s Marakov pistol. Again and again. The Montenegrin pulled a canister from his pocket and quickly sprayed the stunned clerk, pushing him coughing and gasping into a small bathroom reserved for customers’ use at the back of the showroom. Simović, meanwhile, lifted the necklace from the smashed glass and slipped it into his left pocket. From his right, he pulled out his Marakov.

73 seconds

            The two men descended the stairway at neither a run nor an amble, but were met at the bottom by the two female staff, alarmed by the commotion upstairs. At the sight of the pistols, both women froze. Fish in a barrel, Popović thought, filling the air with pepper spray. To the sound of their whimpers and cries, the two men pushed through the doors and out into lunch-hour of Tokyo’s busiest shopping precinct.

            The Serb straightened.

She watched the two foreigners, sartorial in their expensive suits, walk briskly off in opposite directions, melting into the throngs of office workers and masked hay fever sufferers. Her slender finger pushed the ‘stop’.

88 Seconds.

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This story originally appeared in the anthology Noir Nation: International Crime Fiction No. 3. More from Simon Rowe on Writers in Kyoto here or here.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Kodokushi (A Solitary Death)

October 12, 2021

A Short Story by Rebecca Otowa (October 2021)

Keiko opened the metal front door with her key and almost fell inside. Her shadow, cast by the streetlight, lurched, and her white shoes seemed to tangle together. She recovered her balance, hauled her big carrier bag and a smaller one inside, and closed the door. She stood there in the dark entranceway, panting, for a full minute before she found the strength to slide off her shoes and raise her arm to the light switch.

The overhead light revealed a small unremarkable room, with a narrow kitchen behind half-open sliding screens to the right and a large window of pebbled glass in the wall directly opposite. The floor was straw matting, with haphazardly folded bedding in the corner. On top of the bedding cowered a small white cat, who when it recognized her came forward,

“It’s all right, Shiro, I’m home, and you’re right, it’s your dinnertime.” Keiko walked slowly toward the kitchen. As she entered it, she kicked aside a couple of plastic boxes that had once held food from a convenience store. The sink was full of dirty dishes. She cleared a space on the countertop, picked a dish from the dirty stack, and removed a purple KalKan pouch of cat food from the smaller plastic bag she had brought in, emptying it into the dish. She placed the dish on the floor in front of the cat’s nose and verified that he was indeed eating before once again rooting in the bag for her own dinner.

Holding a plastic box containing rice and chicken and a bottle of tea, she slumped down on the floor, legs stretched out straight, and wolfed the food in five minutes flat. Her eyes were closing from weariness before she was done. Keiko looked into the corner of the room at a glass door, slightly ajar, the entrance to a small bathroom. Take a bath? But the bath would be reeking from the cat box she kept in there, and she was so tired, so tired… Tomorrow night maybe. Or a shower in the morning. She tossed the empty plastic box and bottle toward the kitchen and crawled over to the bed. In a moment she was asleep, forgetting to turn off the light.

Keiko Matsunaga was a nurse in a big-city hospital. Lately, with the virus that was causing havoc all over the world, she found herself busier than ever, working every spare minute, with hardly time to turn around, much less think whether this was the life she had intended to have when she graduated from nursing school a generation ago. No matter how hard she worked, she never seemed to manage to make a dent in all the things that had to be done in the hospital. She sometimes thought she was little more than a glorified maid, changing sheets and disinfecting floors around the beds of terminally ill patients that overflowed into the hallways, trying not to disturb the machines and the plastic pipes inserted here and there into their bodies under the sheets.

Keiko couldn’t remember when she had last had a vacation. Overtime was the order of the day in the hospital, especially among the nuts-and-bolts nurses like her. Every day she was there, and regular holidays came and went unnoticed. Even the larger sets of holidays, one per season, were not important to Keiko, who had no family to visit (she was an only child, and her parents were dead), or friends to share a trip to a hot spring or the beach (she had only the businesslike relationships that resulted from working shoulder to shoulder all day long). She worked, came home, slept, and went back to work the next day. Her only companion was her old cat Shiro.

But lately exhaustion was taking its toll. Keiko was almost fifty. She was slowing down, and the repetitive movements that made up her day were getting harder to perform. Perhaps even more worrisome was her mind, which was getting sludgy with tiredness and lack of stimulation. Keiko never did anything for herself. Her paycheck just barely covered her expenses, and she dreaded to think what would happen – not to her, but to Shiro – if she were no longer able to work and buy the purple packets he loved.

Daylight crept into the small cluttered room, insinuating itself under Keiko’s closed eyelids. She sighed and turned over, her leg kicking out at Shiro, who got up from his accustomed place on the bed and walked off in a dudgeon. A minute later the alarm of her old-fashioned clock shrilled, and she flailed with her arm, knocking it flying. It blatted a second or two longer, then was silent. Keiko tiredly flung the bedcovers aside and stripped off her crumpled nurse’s uniform, which she had slept in. One of the most pressing issues of her life was going to work looking presentable every day, and the morning routine that ensured this had been painstakingly honed till it was second nature.

The nurse’s uniform went into a plastic bucket into which Keiko ran hot water and added a squirt of detergent. While it soaked, she plugged in an iron which she stood upon a towel spread out on the floor, took from a hanger on a nail the previous day’s uniform (she had only two), and with quick practiced movements ironed the uniform, spraying it with spray starch from a can, and hung it back up again. Then she squeezed out the other uniform and hung it up too, to dry until the following morning when she would do it all again.

This was the extent of the housework that Keiko felt able to do, and she only did that because she wanted to hide the squalid truth about her life from the people at work. A slovenly nurse was unheard of, and to appear less than spick and span would probably result in her being fired. The only indulgence she permitted herself was a good cup of coffee each morning before she left for the hospital. All her coffee cups had been dirtied long ago, so these days she used paper cups. She set up the coffee maker with a pod of her favorite Blue Mountain coffee, and while it did its magic, she checked her bag and changed into the freshly ironed uniform.

Keiko drank her coffee, sighing, and noticed that during the night, Shiro had licked clean the lunch box from the convenience store. She gave his head a pat, added the plastic box and her coffee cup to the growing pile on the kitchen floor, and left the apartment, remembering this time to switch off the light.

Every day, every night, was like this. The year and the pandemic wore on, with no end in sight. Every time people thought that the disease was slackening off, there would be another surge and back to overtime all the hospital staff would go. Keiko was getting so tired she couldn’t even think straight, but she couldn’t ask for time off to recuperate when no one else was getting any.

She continued her cheerless lifestyle. Work all day, then retrieve her tote bag from her locker. Home on the subway, popping into the convenience store next to the station where she bought dinner for herself and Shiro, and occasionally topped up her supply of coffee pods and paper cups. Back to her one-room flat on the ground floor of a large boxlike building, giving thanks every evening that getting into her room didn’t involve climbing the stairs that wound upwards at one end of the building. The stairs in the subway station were bad enough. She sometimes used to wonder how many people living in the big city were just too exhausted or ill to face going out, where long walks and staircases ensured that only the healthiest people would be part of ordinary, mobile society.

Each night she fed Shiro, ate her dinner, threw the plastic boxes in the direction of the kitchen, and collapsed on the futon. Each morning she drank her coffee, laundered her uniforms, and stepped out for another day of work. There was nothing else to do – she just had to keep going, like so many who did this kind of important work in the disease-ridden city. More and more patients just kept coming and coming, the equipment was scarce and overworked, places had to be found for deceased patients and grieving relations. Providing hospital facilities like cleaning, laundry and food was made more complicated by the insistences from superiors that everything be disinfected.

Cleaning was starting to go by the board in the hospital – there just wasn’t time to keep everything as spick and span as usual. Cobwebs appeared in the corners of the ceiling, and areas not frequented grew dusty. And, as Keiko knew but usually tried to put out of her mind, her apartment was rapidly becoming unliveable. The trash from the convenience store, originally confined to the kitchen floor and countertops, had started to invade the main room. Shiro finally disdained the cat box in the bathroom, full and unchanged as it was, and would do his business among the paper and plastic. The unmade futon now formed a small island in a sea of junk. Keiko fell into her front door every night and breathed in the new, gamey scent of her home. It was a rich, deep funk that somehow made her sleep better. Anyway, there was nothing to be done. She simply didn’t have the energy to begin cleaning it up. It was beyond her.

One evening Keiko felt even more tired than usual. She staggered from the subway station to her apartment without even stopping at the convenience store. Coughing, she lay down on her futon in the dark. Shiro crept close to her, for a wonder not meowing for dinner, which was just as well because there wasn’t any. Keiko lay there, watching headlights intermittently illuminate the pebbled surface of the window. She felt hot and uncomfortable. The night passed slowly. Keiko wished she had something to drink. The tap in the kitchen still worked, but it seemed so far away. At last the morning light came in through the window as usual, but there would be no work for Keiko that day. She lay on the futon gasping like a landed fish. Her whole being was focused on the next breath, and the one after that.

At the hospital that day, amid the flurry of the morning tasks, one of the nurses noticed that Keiko wasn’t there. She mentioned it to her supervisor, who decided to call Keiko on the cell phone she had been issued by the hospital. She sat in her cluttered office and dialed the number. It rang and rang.

In the basement of the hospital, in the deserted locker room, a small but insistent ringing pierced the silence. Keiko had forgotten her phone in her locker.

The supervisor tried to call a couple more times that day, when she remembered. But there was never any answer. She decided that Keiko had just taken the day off, and had not bothered to ask permission, knowing it would not be given. Herself overworked, with emergencies erupting every few minutes, and a head full of plans for getting through the evening’s demands with a family to care for, the supervisor eventually forgot all about Keiko.

In a fog of pain and exhaustion, Keiko lay on her futon. When she opened her eyes, she saw the daylight shining on the vast pile of trash that seemed just a few inches from her eyes. Sometimes she was aware of Shiro rooting among the paper and plastic, sometimes he came and lay down beside her. She couldn’t even lift a hand to pat him, her one companion in the world. “I’m not going to make it, Shiro-kun,” she croaked. His green eyes looking at her were the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes.

Keiko died alone after being sick for three days. Her neighbors were alerted by the meowing of the cat, and called the police. The neighbors stood behind the officer who came and forced open the lock. The smell of the apartment hit them like a wall, and they fell back, staring at the huge mound of trash in the doorway. The two officers – they always did things in pairs – waded through the trash and found Keiko lying on her futon, and Shiro crouched in the corner next to the trash-filled kitchen.

The neighbors looked at each other knowingly, and muttered, “Gomi yashiki” (Garbage castle). They didn’t know her, had never spoken to her, but obviously the woman who lived alone here was a slovenly, dirty woman who didn’t care what her apartment looked like. No wonder she had gotten ill and come to such a bad end. They went back to their apartments, shaking their heads.

The cleanup crew came later the same day, after Keiko’s body had been removed and someone had seen her nurse’s uniform and phoned up the hospital. One of the crew, a young girl who didn’t look strong enough to brave such awful scenes as the one that met her eyes upon stepping into the trash-filled apartment, was sorry for Shiro and took him home with her. Unfortunately Shiro died himself a couple of days later. He couldn’t be persuaded to eat or drink, but sat motionless with eyes half-closed, seeming to wait passively for the end. Yet another casualty of the dreaded virus had moved on to the next world.

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(This story was inspired by the book Toki ga Tomatta Heya (Rooms where Time has Stopped), written by a young woman called Kojima Mu who works on a cleanup crew putting apartments in order after someone has died alone. One of the most common types of these deaths is the overworked person, usually a woman, who has given up the struggle to keep her apartment clean and lives in a pile of trash. More often than not such a woman is some kind of professional who has no relatives and keeps up appearances so that no one knows that the squalor of her residence has reached critical mass. The accumulation of trash elicits judgmental comments, but most people (like me) aren’t aware of the truth about these poor people.)

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Rebecca Otowa has published three books, At Home in Japan (essays, Tuttle 2010), My Awesome Japan Adventure (children’s book, Tuttle 2013) and The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper (short stories, Tuttle 2019). All are illustrated by the author. She has also painted over 50 pictures of various genres, and held 2 shows (2015 and 2019).

To learn about the artwork of Rebecca, see this page.
For the report of a lunch talk by Rebecca, click here.
For her self-introduction, see this page.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Smiling with Light

October 4, 2021

Extracted from Edward Levinson’s Whisper of the Land (2014)

sitting in the lotus position 　　　 蓮華座組み
the Zen carpenter　　　　　　　禅の大工が
hammers nails　　　　　　　　 釘を打つ
along the long hall of his life 　　長い人生の廊下に沿って

renge-za kumi, Zen no daiku ga, kugi o utsu, nagai jinsei no rōka ni sotte

*****
Edward Levinson, aka Edo

My garden is not a Zen garden but it does have some symbolism, with little islands, dry rivers, and rocks that look like miniature mountains. Like life, where and how you look at it determines what you see. I try to balance local nature spirits with the global breath of the cosmos.

As a photographer, gardener, and lover of the old and sacred, I often visit Kyoto for inspiration. After Tokyo it is always a breath of fresh air, a small city but it has a cosmopolitan feeling. Because my first homestay was near there, it feels like my Japanese hometown, my furusato.

One fall I spent some time exploring the northeast of the old capital city. A beautiful woman in a seasonal chrysanthemum-patterned kimono walked ahead of me along the wooded Philosopher’s Path. With a little help from my will, we had naturally fallen in step together; it seemed unfair that she walk unescorted. As I walked and talked with the stranger, nature’s colorful maples and gingko trees grinned at the thought of us. Being separated from the other strollers, it must have looked like a scene out of a doomed Japanese love story.

We made quite a pair, I in a dirty down coat with a clunky camera backpack, attempting to walk philosophically in my green Reebok sneakers while she shuffled along gracefully in her clean, white tabi socks and zōri sandals.

We exchanged a few pleasantries; I was ready to stop and have tea with her, but she bowed her apologies and slipped off into the twilight, wanting to get to Ginkaku-ji Temple at the end of the path before it got dark. Or so she said. I guess our outfits and budgets didn’t match. I settled for a bowl of udon noodles alone at a greasy spoon shokudō (restaurant) watching near-naked sumo wrestlers on TV with a pack of smoking taxi drivers waiting for their passengers, who were eating at the expensive restaurant across the street.

Walking around Daikaku-ji Temple and vicinity the next day with my cameras, I was having trouble seeing what I was experiencing. As I reached the far side of an island in Osawa Pond which borders the temple, I was ready to give up shooting and move on to the next site. Suddenly, I found myself standing under a wonderful old tree. The tops of its big roots were bursting out of the clean swept soil, its thick limbs perfectly balanced in nearly every direction. A small torii and shrine confirmed the sacredness and majesty of the tree. From the right perspective, the tree is the center point of the Daikaku-ji area; it holds a position of power. Earlier in the day at another very crowded temple, red maple leaves attracted hordes of tourists. Here, I was alone with a magnificent tree that loved me for taking time to love it.

“You only pass this way once” (Ichigo ichi he) is one of my favorite Japanese expressions, but in Kyoto I often visit the same sacred places over and over again, trying to get to know them better. Sometimes I find something fresh. Over time, be it fifteen minutes or fifteen years, I savor the essence of the place. When I leave it’s as if I’ve been on retreat. I am on a high, and sometimes it’s hard to go back out into the city streets. Then I will encounter temple and shrine people doing real things, and it reminds me of the middle way, of balancing the spiritual and material worlds.

Every day a Japanese man dressed in white judo-like work clothes sweeps the stairway to Yoshida Shrine, putting the few leaves into small neat piles. In Shinto as well as Zen, the broom metaphorically sweeps the heart clean. He is only a shrine worker, not a monk or priest, but he seems content and focused on the work at hand. I wouldn’t mind his job or that of the elderly couple of cleaners who were polishing the railings and floors of Shōren-in Temple on a rainy summer day. Good daily exercises in polishing the heart. Even the parking lot attendant had a Laughing Buddha smile on his face as he bowed and collected my money.

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http://www.edophoto.com (Edward Levinson’s photography website)
http://www.whisperoftheland.com ( Whisper of the Land  book website)

This tree is at Shōren-in Temple in Kyoto. It sits on top of a stone retaining wall outside the entrance to the temple, blessing all those who walk by on the street under it. I always visit there, enjoy its energy, and take its photo when in Kyoto.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Gion Higashi

October 1, 2021

A Glimpse into the History of Gion Higashi
by Yuki Yamauchi

Scene from the first performance of Gion Odori in 1952 (Public domain)

The flamboyance of Kyoto has long been enhanced by the culture of five kagai (geisha quarters). Since my heart was touched by the performances of geiko and maiko in the Gion Odori of 2016, the focus of my interest has been in particular on Gion Higashi – a district, roughly speaking, bordered by Shinbashi-dori in the north, Higashiyama-dori in the east, Shijo-dori in the south and Hanami-koji in the west.

This two-section article focuses on the history of Gion Higashi (the district has also been called Zeze-ura, Gion Otsubu or Gion Higashi Shinchi in the past).

  1. The Birth of Gion Higashi

The start of what is now the Gion Higashi district marked a farewell to Japan’s feudal times. The area had hosted a gigantic residence for a samurai clan from the Zeze domain (current Shiga Prefecture), which was removed in 1870. It was replaced with ochaya (tea houses), which became part of the Gion district. In 1881, however, the expanded Gion area was split into the current two parts – Gion Kobu and Gion Higashi (known then as Gion Otsubu).

Kunimichi Kitagaki, the third governor of Kyoto Prefecture, ordered the separation. It happened not only due to administrative purposes, but also due to a fiscal problem. According to Nakunatta Kyo no Kuruwa (Defunct Pleasure Quarters in Kyoto), published in 1958, the issue had much to do with an educational institution for girls, known as nyokoba:

[The association of the Gion district] received a 50-percent refund of three yen (about ¥90,000) that it had paid to Kyoto Prefecture and was supposed to allocate the money for education expenses of girls attending the institution. The money from the prefecture amounted to 2,000 yen (about ¥6 million), but only 200 yen (about ¥600,000) was spent for tuition fees and the rest was kept, so the association amassed a substantial amount of cash. Therefore, people at Zeze-ura (Gion Higashi) insisted since spring, 1881, that 40,000 yen (about ¥12 million) be reimbursed to taxpayers.

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[The amounts in parenthesis are calculated based on a formula taken from a page in the Collaborative Reference Database.]

The establishment of the nyokoba was prompted by the Maria Luz incident in 1871, in which Chinese indentured laborers were rescued from poor working conditions in a Peruvian ship that docked in Yokohama for repairs. The occurrence helped raise awareness of human rights in Japan, and thus the country enforced the Geishogi Kaiho Rei (Emancipation Edict for Female Performers and Prostitutes) in the same year, which led to the launch of the educational institution.

The founding of Mima Nyokoba, a new educational institution, worsened the feud within the pre-separation Gion district, and it was in 1886 that Gion Higashi completely parted from Gion Kobu by establishing its own association.

In 1872 Gion Kobu and Pontocho started dance shows (Miyako Odori and Kamogawa Odori), and the new district of Gion Higashi began holding its own, Mima Odori, in 1894. It was a predecessor of Gion Odori, the now-existing annual performance that began in 1952. It is uncertain how long the performances were held regularly, but it could be speculated that such events, if they took place in the 1930s and the early 1940s, might have adored Japan’s militarism just like the Miyako Odori and the Kamogawa Odori – the former’s program title in 1942, for example, was Mikuni no Hokori, which translates as Pride of the Imperial Nation, while the latter’s in 1940 was Nanshin Nippon, which roughly means, “Go southward, Japan.”

  1. Post-WWII years and the present day

In the final year of World War II, the city of Kyoto was air-raided five times. However, its kagai quarters remained unscathed, according to a report in Kagai Shimbun (Nov. 1, 1948). Nevertheless, the journal also refers to the fact that some employees were forced to evacuate.

In April 1948, the entertainment magazine Shin Furyu described what the atmosphere was like then and what Gion Higashi was planning to do:

Despite gloomy social conditions brought by the defeat of Japan, the country greeted the flowery spring season this year. While kagai quarters in Kyoto are developing events to show their performers’ skill, Gion Otsubu will hold Onshukai dance performances on May 5, 6, 7 and 8,… In the meantime, the association has already purchased land to found an art school that can cope quickly with the changing times.

As explained in the magazine Kenchiku to Shakai, the offices of the Geiko Association of Gion Otsubu served as a dance hall for the Allied Occupation forces. By the time the issue was published in August 1949, the building had been returned to its original owner and rebuilt, resulting in the addition of a hall for dance performance upstairs and a Western tea room downstairs.

In the following year, Kagai Shimbun (Sept. 15, 1950) reported on events that would happen in the near future as below: 

When Kyoto enjoys autumn with beautifully colored leaves, there will take place the annual Onshukai for six days, from October 13 to 18, at Gion Kaikan; the performances of Gion Higashi Shinchi will be the leadoff and the choreography is arranged by Ryosuke Fujima.

The gala continued the following year when Gion Higashi Shinchi held the ninth installment of the Onshukai event, presenting pieces including the ambitious work titled Shikibu to Borei (Izumi Shikibu and the Ghost) from Oct. 25 to 29. The work, set in the Heian Period, was put together by film and stage director Akira Nobuchi and the historical research was made by traditional Japanese painter Hisako Kajiwara, with choreography overseen by Ryosuke Fujima.

The following year, 1952, is a watershed in the history of Gion Higashi as it launched the famed annual dance performance: Gion Odori. The inaugural edition of the festival featured experts including Akira Nobuchi, Hisako Kajiwara (she was also in charge of stage costumes and scenography) and Ryosuke Fujima and around 50 geiko and maiko. The performances are believed to have taken place at 1:30 p.m. and 5 p.m. each day between Oct. 21 and 30 at Gion Kaikan, but the Kyoto edition of Asahi Shimbun (Nov. 1, 1952) reported as follows:

The first installment of Gion Odori, which Gion Higashi Shinchi started instead of Onshukai, ended on [Oct.] 30. It did not draw a crowd during the first few days, but it came to enjoy more and more popularity. On the last day there was an additional show, which became a sell-out. There was actually another on the morning of [Oct.] 31. This is how the curtain finally fell, without a hitch.

Gion Odori has since served as an annual showcase for the public (there were no performances from 1955 to 1957 and in 1989 – the year the Emperor Showa passed away). To the chagrin of fans of traditional dance, Kyoto will have a second autumn without Gion Odori, as its cancellation was announced in August. Let us hope that geiko and maiko can show their proficiency to celebrate the event’s 70th anniversary, so that next year we can celebrate one of the greatest shows in Kyoto!

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Picture (Link to the photo of Gion Odori published in the 26th volume of Kyoto):
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gion_Odori_in_1952.jpg

(On a side note, the year 1900 saw Shogi Torishimari Kisoku, a new law to impose stricter rules on prostitutes. It helped the president of Gion Higashi in those days weaken the dominance of prostitutes in the district and improve the status of geiko and maiko instead. The status of traditional performers has been stable since the Prostitution Prevention Law came into effect in 1958.)

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For an introduction to Yuki Yamauchi, please click here. For his piece on Portraits of Uji, click here. For his portrait of prewar academic critic, Tatsuo Kuriyagawa, click here. And for his piece on theatre and film director, Akira Nobuchi, click here.

Kyoto Journal 100 Views of Kyoto

September 26, 2021

Kyoto Journal 100th Issue Published

Review by Rebecca Otowa     Sept. 24, 2021

Cover photo from Gion Matsuri’s mikoshi arai ritual, by Patrick Hochner

This month, throughout Japan and the world of people who love Japan, a great sigh of relief and satisfaction could be felt. The 100th issue of the prestigious Kyoto Journal was published.

Since it first saw the light in 1987, this quarterly publication has had many printing vicissitudes, and twice has had to go to online publishing due to cost considerations. But thanks to many generous donations, and to the SunM printing company, this 100th issue has been lavishly and beautifully printed and can be held in the hand. Devoted readers will surely raise a cheer.

Kyoto Journal and Writers in Kyoto have gone hand in hand for years, although KJ is much more venerable; we are both volunteer organizations. We can count several key members of the KJ editing and publishing team among our members, including John Einarsen and Ken Rodgers. In addition, this 100th issue contains many pieces by respected voices of the Kyoto foreign community who are also members of WiK, including John Dougill, Alex Kerr, Robert Yellin, Felicity Tillack, Mark Hovane, Catherine Pawasarat, Edward J. Taylor, and many more.

Spoiler alert! Herewith a few highlights from members’ contributions. John Dougill’s piece, View 2 “Dimensions”, describes the various facets of Kyoto, from the physical buildings to educational institutions, craft traditions and tourism, finally touching on the “unseen” city with all its historical milestones and panoramas. Robert Yellin contributes information about some of Kyoto’s contemporary potters in View 28, “Clay Play”. And Mark Hovane, expert on gardens, introduces a wonderful Japanese phrase that he learned while walking through Honen’in soon after he arrived, in View 59 “Komorebi”, the beauty of dappled sunlight through the trees.  

This issue includes articles from past Journals, as well as photography, poetry, and essays on every conceivable topic from “Heian Era” (View 3) to “Intoxication” (View 72) and “Pokemon” (View 39). Each View is accompanied by a cute stylized logo designed by Hirisha Mehta. Due to space considerations, this print version ends at “An Astonishing Amalgam” (View 82); the remaining 18 Views will be available to read on the KJ website. Each View shows a different aspect, and they are all imbued with the love that each individual has grown to feel for the fair city of Kyoto. The pieces are short and easy to read, and the visual content as always is superb, highlighting the talents of both illustrators and photographers.

If I may be permitted a small personal reminiscence, years ago I was pleased to appear as an extra in the film “Chikyu no Heso” (The Navel of the World, 2008), in which (in a not too far distant future) Kyoto’s traditions have been taken over by the people who love them most, the foreign residents. I had to wear a Japanese style white apron and pray at a roadside shrine; my little role was of a neighbor lady who was “more Japanese than the Japanese”. There are certainly many foreigners who have made this city their home, and their love of it shines through each page of this beautiful Kyoto Journal. And they may be more deeply responsible for getting the word out about the wonders of the city, particularly in other countries, than the Japanese themselves are. 

The cover shows a gathering for purification (Mikoshi-arai) at the end of the Gion Festival, which is very timely, considering the plight of Kyoto with fewer numbers of tourists since the Covid pandemic hit 18 months ago. We at WiK would like to express a heartfelt wish that our beloved city of Kyoto can recover and resume its place among lovers of all things beautiful and evocative in Japan.   

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Although the issue has sold out, readers can get a taste of the contents (plus some extras) by looking at this page from the Kyoto Journal website.

Cover full spread photo by Patrick Hochner

Storied (Rachel Davies)

September 12, 2021

Storied is a high quality glossy magazine in print as well as digital editions. It was set up by a resident of Kyoto, British born Rachel Davies, and thanks to Tina deBellegarde WiK was able to host her for a Zoom session on Sept 12.

The concept behind the magazine is to promote lesser known tourist places and facets of Japan in a way that is sustainable and responsible. Each issue is themed, and the first which focussed on Kyoto came out in the summer. Rather than the usual suspects, the magazine looked to steer potential tourists to off the beaten places and crafts in Kyotango and Keihoku. Volume 2 features Islands, which will be followed by Volume 3 on Cedar and Volume 4 on Water.

Tina deBellegarde who hosted the session and put questions to Rachel Davies (bottom).

Rachel has a background in PR marketing as well as doing freelance travel tourism. Frustrated by the focus among foreign media on only the well-known aspects of Japan, she found a business partner, and having laid out the details of how they wanted to proceed they turned to Kickstarter to raise funds for their venture. Thanks to their preparation it proved an unexpected success, reaching their target in the first three hours!

With the money they raised they were able to go about producing a print magazine. Though they realised they would have to have a digital version too, the print magazine was their priority. They also saw the need for social media, and thanks to quality photographs they have run up 12,000 followers on Instagram.

As far as outlets are concerned, most of the sales and retails are overseas. In Kyoto they have just three outlets, and interestingly none of them are bookshops. Instead they are using niche outlets such as art galleries and event spaces.

What has Rachel learnt from undertaking the project so far? ‘Everything takes much longer than expected.’ There have been a lot of delays, and each delay can have a knock-on effect. Also she learnt the wisdom in the old adage that you only get what you pay for. At first she and her partner tried to save money with a cut-rate printer, but the quality was so poor they had to reject the shipment. Instead they turned to more expensive printers who clearly love their job (it turned out to be the same printer as used by Kyoto Journal).

These are difficult times for print, and Covid-19 has made anything connected with tourism a daunting challenge. So it is refreshing and heartening to hear of a new high-quality product run by young entrepreneurs with optimism and a vision fr the future. Aware of the problems of overtourism, they are hoping to help with the expected surge that will follow when the great pandemic comes to an end by steering readers to the great wealth of experiences to be had off the beaten tracks.

Writers in Kyoto wishes them well and we look forward to future cooperation.

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With thanks to Tina deBellegarde for organising the event, and to Lisa Wilcut for running the Zoom session. To see the video of the event, please click here.

To see the Storied website, please check out https://storiedmag.com/
If you are a WiK member and would like a copy of the media kit for contributors, please send an email to John Dougill.

Jann Williams (WiK Anthology 4 Contributor) and the Gorinto of Kyoto

September 12, 2021

Award-winning ecologist, writer, photographer, and Writers in Kyoto member Jann Williams was a contributor to Structures in Kyoto (WiK Anthology 4) but unable to attend our virtual book launch on August 22nd. Having missed that opportunity to introduce her essay “Beyond Zen – Kyoto’s Gorinto Connections” about the essence and evolution of the five-ring pagoda, she has created the short video below. In addition to attaining your copy of the anthology to read more, Jann’s intriguing explorations of the elements in Japanese culture can be found on her blog Elemental Japan.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

The Last Ghost of Summer

September 10, 2021

by Fernando Torres

I have become a yūrei, my disembodied form drifting through the streets and back alleys of Kyoto — unseen — unnoticed. There on my left is my neighbor, frozen in time, her nose almost touching the ground from decades of "floor culture" and bones that stretch back to the Taishō era. "Ohayō gozaimasu!" I shout, but her broom doesn't move. There is no point to my aisatsu; I have become a fuyūrei, a wandering spirit. My neck pivots to the sky to gaze at birds who are still like flowers, preserved between pieces of wax paper. My neighborhood is surprisingly unchanged; our trash is even under the same blue net that prevents the large-billed crows from carrying it away. Walking further, I reach where our street narrows, as they often do in Kyoto, and I am unable to continue. I can see the top of my house, but no matter how much I strain, I am frozen but ten meters from my door. Is this Purgatory? No matter how much I yearn for my front gate, there is an invisible wall. My virtual reality headset comes off, and the 360-degree image collapses. Back in America, I experience momentary disorientation, or perhaps it is melancholy. No matter how complete the app's database, it lacks the final images to allow me to return home.
My transformation into a ghost begins at Kansai airport, which greets me as an apocalyptic wasteland, like something from a dystopian novel. My friends in Asia have urged me not to leave Japan. America is at the height of the pandemic, but life in Japan is only starting to become constrained. "You have a house in Kyoto. There is no reason for you to leave." But I know differently.

My last days in Kyoto are pleasant. People elsewhere in the world are in total lockdown, yet I enjoy strolls in Shosei-en Garden and buying the washi for the poetry lantern I'm creating. Aware of the shortages that hit America, I am one of the few prepared when the shelves start to empty. Hoping to get just a couple of small items, I stop by the large market at Katsuragawa, but everything is already gone. I have one final lunch with my neighbors where we exchange gifts of masks and toilet paper. That night, sitting by the Kamo river, the future is uncertain, but little do I realize how long it will be before I see Kyoto again. The next time I return, my physical form will not accompany me.

As I walk towards customs, I am a condemned man voluntarily pursuing their executioner. The airport shops are barren, their boxes of omiyage undisturbed. Thousands of empty chairs pass by, with not one weary traveler to fill them. I start to wonder if this is even real, or perhaps I am the one whose reality is deceived. Does this scene not resemble that of ghostlore, where spirits are forced to wander the places they once knew, ignorant of their circumstances? What else could explain how my backpack has no companion as it passes through the x-ray machine? I linger, but no one joins me. Where is the grumpy ojisan I usually encounter, the one annoyed at how long it takes for me to gather my things? Where is the multitude of other voices who drown out the announcements to which we pay no mind? I continue downstairs to customs, a vast area designed to process thousands of international travelers, but I am alone. Only those who work there remain, their eyes fixed upon me at once. They all look as if they have seen a ghost.

A few months later, back in America, I am in the emergency room, the ER ward's first VR-related incident. My finger is askew, and it appears like I won't be playing the piano any time soon. My misfortune is the result of a virtual ping pong game. The app's real-world physics are so close to reality that I subconsciously forget that the table doesn't exist and as I lunge for the ball, my finger jams into the wall. When I throw off my headset, it is discovered to be at a most bizarre angle—I am rushed to the emergency room. Only one doctor is available, as it is the weekend. With another patient in the midst of a heart attack, I clutch my hand and wait. When the doctor finally arrives to pull it back into place, I experience the kind of pain reserved for heretics and prisoners of the crown. Apparently, there really are a lot of nerves in your hands. When the x-ray technician returns, both he and the doctor are astonished; nothing is broken. But I know the reason. I have become a ghost, and y(u)rei are not susceptible to the injuries of men. My accident does not deter me; within twenty-four hours, I am back in the metaverse.

My first encounter with virtual reality was at the Aichi Expo in 2005. Hitachi had an exhibit that demonstrated AR, or mixed reality. Visitors to the unfortunately named "Ubiquitous Entertainment Ride" could interact with endangered species via a hand-held display that superimposed digital 3D graphics over moving dioramas.  A hand sensor allowed you to feed digital monkeys bananas or play with a sea turtle. It was an astonishing display of a technology that is only now becoming available to the general public. I had written about virtual and augmented reality in the early 1990s, but that material never saw publication. However, I revisited many of those themes in my recent novel, "More Than Alive: Death of an Idol," a sci-fi novel set in a near-future Tokyo and Kyoto. It retained the same premise that the yakuza had developed a drug that numbed suspension of disbelief, making VR seem real—but with a supernatural twist.
 
The story's ghost angle, however, came from a rather disturbing incident at Inari shrine. Wanting to impress a visiting friend, I waited until nightfall to show him how beautiful the shrine could be without tourists from Kansas taking selfies. An hour later, though, it almost appeared my friend was going to need counseling as he kept murmuring about the ghostly cat lady he kept seeing in random locations and the dark void he feared would swallow us. I'll admit I was a little surprised when I later learned that there had been many disappearances in that particular area at night, but I was more concerned about the sound of snorting wild boars in the shadows. Our neighborhood actually made the local news when some of those demon hogs came down from the hills and attacked a couple of people. There was blood smeared all over a metal door not far from my house. Still, I had only had a problem with ghosts the first night I moved into my 120 year-old-house, but that was most certainly a fluke.

For centuries, artists have attempted to illustrate the wandering spirits of Kyoto. For all practical purposes, I have become one of them; my mortal coil peeled away by technology and not death. I imagine my ethereal form illustrated upon a hanging scroll with a VR headset, something not often found in a kakejiku. 

Actually, a couple of my Kyoto neighbors have become aware of my plight through our message group on Line. They have seen the recorded footage of my virtual journey and how I am trapped at the point where our street narrows. What happens next is quite unconventional, though. My next-door neighbor, Kaori, has decided that she is not willing to accept the familiar mantra that "it can't be helped." Perhaps she has sensed my immaterial form at the end of the street, fixed in place by the policies of nation-states and the limitations of technology. Stepping into the sweltering Kyoto sun, she raises her phone and snaps several pictures. The database is complete, and as she clicks "send," I find myself immediately released. My spirit surges forward, and I complete the final leg of my journey, arriving beside my inuyarai gate. My hyosatsu greets me, and for once, I no longer feel like a stranger. For at that moment — if only within a waking dream — I am home.

Online Launch of Structures of Kyoto, the 4th Anthology of Writers in Kyoto

September 1, 2021

On August 22, 2021 Writers in Kyoto launched its fourth anthology, Structures of Kyoto. One blessing in this difficult year has been how technology has bridged the distance gap. We had attendees from across the globe tuning in from different time zones, some just waking, some staying up late, all happy to be sharing this moment honoring a special book.

Lisa Wilcut, our Zoom host, opened our event with the agenda for the evening and passed the microphone to the editors. Rebecca Otowa thanked the contributors and all those involved in bringing the anthology to print, especially John Dougill and her co-editor Karen Lee Tawarayama. She extended her thanks to the editors of prior anthologies with special recognition to Jann Williams, the chief editor of Encounters with Kyoto (WiK Anthology 3), for all of her guidance and encouragement. She also expressed her gratitude to Rick Elizaga for formatting the publication and acting as Amazon liaison, and to the illustrators, Stuart Ayre (who created the cover picture and other illustrations), Karina Takata (who illustrated the 100 Poems translations on the section head pages) and Sharon Sandberg (who provided illustrations in Karen Lee Tawarayama’s story  “The Life Dispensary”).

Kyoto has many physical, as well as cultural, social and psychological structures. Rebecca explained that she chose the theme of structures because of its broad scope and potential for variety. Indeed, the variety can be witnessed in the anthology, especially in the organization of the book itself. The order of contributions is aligned with the map of Kyoto from West to East so that the interconnections between the pieces become even more apparent.

Karen Lee Tawarayama offered special thanks to Rebecca for guiding her in the co-editing process. She led a toast to all the contributors and the previous editors and passed the microphone to John Dougill, the founder of WiK. John joined us from Hokkaido and commented on the evolution of the organization. He reminisced about starting as a small group around a table in Kyoto and marveled at how we have grown into a large international membership. We are now “writers whose hearts are in Kyoto.” John shared how he prefers to write in coffee houses, away from the distractions calling for his attention at home. In his anthology essay “Three Literary Cafes”, he describes his experience based on places associated with the Beats, Cid Corman and Pico Iyer.

Rebecca Otowa
Karen Lee Tawarayama

In her foreword to the anthology, Judith Clancy reflects on her fifty years in Kyoto and the evolution of the writing community. Judith was unable to join us but sent a message of gratitude to all involved with the publication.

The contributors then talked about their pieces in the order of the Table of Contents. The first contributors were Rona Conti and Brenda Yates, who unfortunately could not join us. Rona’s essay “What Does This Say, Sensei?” addresses her experiences learning Japanese culture through calligraphy. Brenda Yates was the third prize winner of the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition with “Interlude: Kyoto,” a beautiful poem on the four seasons in Kyoto.

With a diorama of Ryōan-ji garden in one hand, Mark Hovane explained that his essay “Rocks, Gravel, and a Bit of Moss” is about Kyoto’s invitation to forge new ways of seeing, how Kyoto challenges our structures of perception.

Amanda Huggins could not join us, but her contribution “Sparrow Steps” won Second Prize in the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. She conjures up the city in this delicate piece about a precarious relationship.

Rebecca Otowa spoke about “Structures of Tea” and her personal, poetic, and aesthetic relationship to the tea ceremony and how it has the power to transcend ordinary sensations.

The banks of the Horikawa was the first place where Felicity Tillack felt a sense of community in her new home of Kyoto. She shared an experience from her first year, when her young students held a regatta of homemade boats on the Horikawa and how it inspired her to write “The River.”

Mike Freiling thanked Karina Takata for the illustrations that accompanied his translations of the Hyaku Nin Isshu. He read from those and from his own poems, “The Streets of Miyako.”

“Sunrise Over the Kamogawa” by Ina Sanjana won Second Prize in the 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. Ina wrote this poignant poem about a homeless man as a way to highlight a part of Kyoto that is not often witnessed.

Karen Lee Tawarayama discussed her story “The Life Dispensary” about a mythological creature’s attempt to survive climate change in a future version of Kyoto. Her striking story is illustrated by Sharon Sandberg who joined us from Michigan.

Robert Weis, who could not join us, wrote “Converging Waters: Kamogawa Delta Blues” using the delta shape of the Kamo River as symbolic of life choices.

Kyoto is a city of training structures and Reggie Pawle, speaking about his piece “The Magic of the Training Structures of Zen and Kyoto”, explained how the adherence to the structures allows one to reach the heights of mastery, then understanding (as well as pleasure), and eventually freedom.

“December” won Lauren E. Walker the First Prize in the 2020 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition. Lauren explained how she tried to capture the magic of Kyoto through a long walk from Kawaramachi to Ohara. Lauren’s discussion led us in to Edward Taylor’s “Ohara, After Scarlet Leaves.” Edward discussed the themes of impermanence and decay.

Jann Williams could not join us to discuss her fascinating piece “Beyond Zen: Kyoto’s Gorinto Connections,” an essay on the subject of Kyoto’s Buddhist Gorinto monuments.

The 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition First Prize went to Lisa Wilcut for her atmospheric poem “Okuribi” about the send-off of ancestors at the end of Obon. Simon Rowe tuned in from Himeji and followed Lisa with a tale of two reluctant outlaws executing an escape using the festivities of Obon and the Daimonji fire as cover. Both Lisa and Simon expressed admiration for each other’s ability to capture the energy of that special evening.

Catherine Pawasarat had to sign off before she was able to share thoughts on her essay “The Gion Festival: A Hero’s Journey”, in which she poses such interesting questions such as “If we are present for a purification ritual but don’t know it’s happening, does the ritual still affect us?”

The photographs of John Einarsen and his short piece “The Gate” are a perfect respite from heady philosophical questions. John could not attend, but his photos of Nanzen-ji gate speak for themselves. They are lovely in the paperback edition and even more beautifully rendered in the e-book version.

Robert Yellin shared some ceramic pieces of various styles on screen and reminded us that touching them can be a way to connect with nature. He discussed his essay “A Kyoto Ceramic Dynasty”, about the eight generations of Kiyomizu Rokubey family ceramics.

Ken Rodgers, in “Sanjusangendo, Reinterpreted”, spoke on imagined structures. He shared 17th century illustrations of Sanjusangen-do created by Westerners guided by the written descriptions found in Dutch merchants’ accounts from their travels to Kyoto.

We learned that the 450-year-old candy shop located behind Kennin-ji and their “candy for raising children” was the inspiration for Marianne Kimura’s story “Yurei Ame/Ghost Candy”, for which she received Third Prize in the 2019 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition.

In closing, Alex Kerr spoke on “A New Philosophy of Tourism.” He believes Kyoto’s future is bound up in how over-tourism will be handled post-Covid.

We wrapped up the event with questions and further discussion as we sipped our cocktails and coffee.

In a time when Kyoto is inaccessible to many of us, this anthology has the power to transport us back to the city we love. The power of words and the power of technology worked hand in hand to bring us together and to honor the city WiK calls home. Our hearts are in Kyoto regardless of where we find ourselves on the globe.

We look forward to the next edition. There is no more appropriate way to end than with Karen Lee Tawarayama’s toast, “May Writers in Kyoto prosper, and may we all continue to inspire each other.”


Contributed by WiK member Tina deBellegarde, a novelist and short fiction writer. Tina lives in New York and joined Writers in Kyoto in 2020. Her poem “Sound Travels” won the USA Prize in the 2021 WiK Kyoto Writing Competition.

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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

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