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Writers in focus

Edward Levinson introduction

Text and photos by Edward Levinson

fall wind
takes the unknown road
spreading wings

秋の風 未知の道行く翼伸ばす
aki no kaze, michi no michiyuku, tsubasa nobasu

People often ask me why I came to Japan and what its like to make a home in a different culture; it has always been difficult to tell the “long story.” My life here parallels my personal journey of growth. The key to learning has always been listening, seeing, and feeling with my heart. Certain things in life are universal, others are dependent on place and time. Through my photography and writing I try to capture both worlds.

“Forest Path” from the Healing Landscapes series

gingko leaf
floats to the ground
homecoming

銀杏の葉地上に散りて里帰り
ichō no ha, chijō ni chirite, satogaeri

Fall 1979. My first home and furusato in Japan was in Ono, a non-descript village near Shuzan in the Keihoku-cho mountain area of Kyoto-fu. Various introductions and paths led me there and I ended up doing a month long impromptu homestay with an expat organic farmer and his Japanese wife and children. He was a student of Masanobu Fukuoka’s method of Natural Farming as related in the book One Straw Revolution. Reading that book in 1979 while homesteading in the woods of Virginia had kindled my interest in Japan. I came on a vagabond whim without knowing any Japanese language and very little about the culture. Never did I imagine I would still be here 40 years later.

I went from the usual backpacker life to living in Tokyo where my first job was working as Japanese gardener apprentice for three years, learning skills I still use today, both philosophically and physically. It blessedly kept me connected to nature while living in city. I also somehow managed to get a missionary visa for three years to teach meditation and a modern universal version of Sufism. Most likely, I was the first and only person to do so!  

In 1988, I moved to the Boso Peninsula in Chiba Prefecture where I once again took up the country lifestyle, turning it into a profession. As a photographer and writer, nature and the Japanese countryside were my main themes. Over the years my partner, author Tsuruta Shizuka, and I have collaborated on many vegetarian cookbooks and other natural lifestyle books for the Japanese market. During the 1990’s we held many Earth Day events, workshops and charity events, and hosted more than 30 children from Chernobyl in a healthy immune-system building homestay program.

“Expanding” pinhole photograph from the Healing Landscapes series

Photography and writing blended seamlessly with my interest in meditation and the spiritual life. Doing meditative slideshow presentations or with my art photographs on the walls at exhibitions, people often asked me which came first: Did my Nature Meditation practice inspire the images, or was it a nature photograph that inspired a peaceful meditation. I suppose, like a Zen koan, there is no correct answer. But I do know that these aspects of my life need to be together.

“Spirit’s Home” pinhole photograph from the Sacred Japan series

Seeking technical simplicity, I have been specializing in pinhole photography since 1993. The pinhole technique requires slow exposures allowing me to experience the scene at a more natural speed, drinking in a view for 30 seconds or a couple of minutes, rather than average 1/125 of a second of a regular camera.

Kyoto and its motifs appear in many of my series. “Sacred Japan” in black and white and “Mind Games” in color have many images created in Kyoto. My pinhole short movie “Kyoto – Five Ways” (2018) continues to showcase my attachment to Kyoto, and has received several honors. Official Synopsis: A meditative look at Kyoto, both Buddhist and Shinto traditions, through the mystical eye of a pinhole, as well as the nature and people that bind them together. I hope to screen it in Kyoto when the pandemic cools down.

“Faces of Man” pinhole photograph from the Mind Games series

As an essayist and poet, most of my writing is in the personal narrative style, growing out of my experience in both the inner and outer worlds. This holds true even if I am doing travel-culture pieces or more formal journal articles. Same person: one mind, one heart.

Old Kyoto coffee shop
real green garden
Shriveled parsley on plate
Unshaven tired faced white coated waiter waits.
Golden statue bare breasts
Watching us with a laugh
As morning sun creeps
Onto to white wall
Calling us awake
Into the world we make.

          (from “Kyoto Koffee”, written at Inoda Coffee main shop, 1990)

For me the biggest treat, whether on the city streets, temple or shrine grounds, in the woods or on the beach, is to experience places and people directly, to feel and share each other’s presence and to learn (or “unlearn” as is often the case!) as much as I can.

star shaped
pumpkin flowers
radiant humans

花カボチャ星に輝く人のごと
hana kabocha, hoshi ni kagayaku, hito no goto

Local Boso Peninsula Sunset (lens photo)

—-
Edward Levinson on the Web:

My photo website showcases a variety photographs and includes a movie page, exhibitions and other news, book info and writings.   http://www.edophoto.com

Whisper of the Land (Fine Line Press, 2014), my memoir-like collection of essays based on my first 35 years in Japan, including episodes from Kyoto, has its own dedicated website. http://www.whisperoftheland.com

Edward in his garden

—-
Short Bio:

Edward Levinson was born in 1953 in Richmond, Virginia, USA. He came to live in Japan in 1979 and where has been active as a fine art and editorial photographer since 1985. He is especially well known for his pinhole photography.

    Edward’s photo book Timescapes Japan received an Award at Prix de la Photography Paris 2007. Tokyo Story, his short pinhole movie, was an Official Selection at six film competitions, winning several awards. Other photo books include: Moments in the Light, Mind Games, Silhouette Stories, Spots of Light – Tokyo (Solo Hill Books 2017, 2019).

    Writing publications include: Whisper of the Land (Fine Line Press 2014), a collection of essays based on his life in Japan which includes many photos; Balloon on Fire (Cyberwit.net 2019, haiku and photos); and two essay books in Japanese (Iwanami Shoten 2011, 2007).

    Edward’s photographs have been regularly exhibited in Japan, the U.S.A., and Europe since 1994 and are in various museum and private collections. He is a member of The Photographic Society of Japan and The Japan P.E.N. Club. He lives on a hilltop on the Boso Peninsula in Kamogawa, Chiba Prefecture where he has a studio and gallery and tends his rather large Natural Garden for fun and inspiration.

Full C.V. at http://www.edophoto.com/profile_en.html

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Today: Ten Tanka (Altoft)

William Altoft is a teacher in Bristol UK, who has links to Kyoto and draws inspiration from the Japanese tanka form. The following were written on the Bristol harbourside, as pictured below. (For more see his homepage here.)

I

Tower peaks;
quartet sleeps;
the gull’s braced, as am I –  
the lock-gate, leading southward,
bridges o’er.

II

Rice-husk holds
my coffee. Folding up:
the inkless page.
I perch like Giovanni
‘pon his lumber.

III

With nary a wake
it works its way
on through the floating harbour –
a manned-kayak.
Gulls disperse.

IV

In shelt’ring porchway-
entrance to the Arnolfini,
I
re-place myself.
The gull gives up its bracing.

V

Windbreaker は
むらさきです upon
the one half of the pair a-walking.
Shaggy dog:
your fringe ‘n beard match mine.

VI

Elegance…
It strolled on by.
Colour…
It just walked past.
People-watching; people, watching me.

VII

Tanka by the banks-a,
with my notebook near its end –  
a sunsome Sunday ‘neath the harbour sky.
I probably look homeless
to these fam’lies…


VIII

As I adore alliteration,
I must muster up
(Assonance, too!)
three tanka more.
Well, now two.



IX

watched the leaves
go sailing by,
as the noon killed off
the morning.
(It just turned 12pm.)

X

The water level stays
e’er as it is, e’en as the rest
of us do rise ‘n fall
while floating
on the Avon…

Featured writing

Kyoto Journal update Dec. 2020

Ken Rodgers, KJ managing editor

I greatly enjoyed talking with author Alex Kerr about his new book, Finding the Heart Sutra, on our WIK Zoom session on Sunday Nov. 29th. (A recording is available here—thanks to Lisa Wilcut and Rick Elizaga for their technical support!) As an additional reference I had intended to mention that our most recent issue (KJ 98  ‘Ma: a Measure of Infinity’) contains two pieces directly connected with the Heart Sutra, by long-time contributor Leanne Ogasawara. An essay, ‘The Heart of the Matter: Translating the Heart Sutra’ traces the fabled “journey to the west” of Xuanzang, the Chinese pilgrim priest who gathered and translated important scriptures including the Heart Sutra, and an interview, ‘Between Form and Emptiness’ explores how contemporary sculptor Maya Ando incorporated the philosophy of the sutra into her recent show, ‘Form is Emptiness, Emptiness is Form,’ including a large installation piece based on the Ryoanji karesansui garden.

 We selected the theme of ‘Ma’ before coronavirus redefined social dynamics, but its premise of “space between” and “pause” held resonance for contributors; what might otherwise have been a rather abstract philosophical concept became much more personal. Articles, essays and stories delve into myriad aspects of ma: architecture, garden design, overtourism and empty Kyoto, a Zen enigma, isolation and figurative cave-dwelling, calligraphy, the contemplative gaze, VR and the formless mind, ma in music, and in da Vinci’s ‘Last Supper,’ lost landmarks, and even photographer Hoshino Michio’s search for totem poles. If you have not yet encountered this issue, you can find it here [https://kyotojournal.org/current-issue-print-edition/]. Since various Covid-related factors made it impossible to print, it is a digital issue. Over 200 pages, downloadable for around 500 yen or US$5.

At present we are finalizing our next issue, which will also be in digital format: KJ 99 ‘Travel, Revisited’ — which includes a review (also by Leanne) of both Alex’s book and another recently-released commentary on the Heart Sutra by translator Frederik Schodt, better known for his defining 1983 publication, Manga! Manga! Other contributors to this post-Covid reassessment of the urge to discover fresh horizons include (in random order) Rebecca Otowa, John Brandi, Renée Gregorio, Hans Brinckmann, Pico Iyer, Chad Kohalyk, Nigel Triffitt, Elliot Rowe, Jeff Fuchs, Natalie Goldberg, Kimberly Hughes, Bernhard Kellerman, Naoko Fujimoto, Yuyutsu RD Sharma, Greg Pape, Robert Brady. Luo Ying, Amy Uyematsu, Siddharth Dasgupta, Robert van Koesveld, Prairie Stuart-Wolff, Yahia Lababidi, Edward J. Taylor, Roger Pulvers, Teo Wei Ger, Matthew Krueger, Rachelle Meilleur, Matthew Krueger, Winifred Bird and Joji Sakurai. Publication in (hopefully) mid-December, to be announced on KJ’s Facebook https://www.facebook.com/kyoto.journal/. Recommended kotatsu reading for the New Year break…

 Alternatively, anyone in Kansai inspired by Alex’s invocation of Manjusri, the lion-riding, sword-wielding Bodhisattva of Wisdom, could consider a trip out to Abemonju-in in Sakurai, to visit a superb tableaux (including Sudhana, the boy-pilgrim who entered the jewel-cave of Maitreya’s Tower) clearly derived from classic representations in “Manjusri Mecca,” Wutai-shan in Shanxi province, China.

Photo below courtesy of Mark Schumacher’s excellent www.onmarkproductions.com site (thanks Mark for attending the Zoom session!)

Alex Kerr’s ‘Heart Sutra’

Review by Preston Keido Houser

Kerr, Alex. Finding the Heart Sutra: Guided by a Magician, an Art Collector and Buddhist Sages from Tibet to Japan. Dublin: Allen Lane, 2020. 297pp. Ebook and paperback.

I’ve been exposed to the Heart Sutra for several decades now (I hesitate to use the word study since the sutra seems to put the critical faculty to sleep even as it awakens awareness). It is one of those amazing historical texts with which one has difficulty finding fault — an error-free scripture.

Perhaps I’m missing something. Therefore, I seize any opportunity to see what others can make of this criticism-defying text. We need all the help we can get. One must accept gifts graciously, and Finding the Heart Sutra by Alex Kerr is indeed a welcome gift. Often the first Buddhist scripture to behold, the Heart Sutra usually makes more “sense” as one of the final, send-off texts in life, as Kerr points out in his Introduction when referring to friends David Kidd and Marguerite Yourcenar — a springboard in more ways than one.

Kerr employs a straightforward approach to his manuscript: Introduction, a transliteration of the Heart Sutra, followed by a ten-part, section-by-section, word-by-word exegesis and commentary — refreshing to be reminded of people, places, or concepts that may have faded. The Dalai Lama, Andy Warhol, Thich Nhat Hanh, Nagarjuna, Mencius, Gore Vidal, Shakespeare — a metaphysical menagerie that populates the commentary. Kerr’s style resembles an informed chat concerning serious matters, again, refreshing in that he does not let the reader get too bogged down in technicalities — it makes for an energizing read.

More of a handbook than a scholarly treatise (although the scholarship is there), Finding the Heart Sutra is akin to a field guide… or perhaps a memoir of a traveling companion… or a mirror journal written to oneself — that’s the impact of the Heart Sutra. Along with commentary, Kerr has provided notes, references, glossary, and a Who’s Who. Oh, and the icing on top: wonderful calligraphy in Kerr’s hand, especially the airy emptiness (空).

Thanks to the Heart Sutra, and now Kerr’s enlightening contribution, I know even less than I did when I first encountered this mind-blazing text… and I’m probably better off for it. As Nobel Laureate Bob Dylan succinctly wrote, “I’m younger than that now.”


(For the hardback or kindle editions of the book, click here.)

Alex Kerr will be interviewed on Nov 29 at 11.00 am Japan time by Ken Rodgers in a Zoom event hosted by Writers in Kyoto. For details and registration, please click here.

Featured writing

The Witches Play Macbeth

The Witches Play Macbeth
by Marianne Kimura

In Birnam Wood, we’d all meet, all the witches, to dance. We’d twirl and skip under the stars with the god Pan. No dull churches for him: he could be found only in groves and grottoes, riverbanks and the little sandy edges of the Forfar Loch, where grasses grew.

Sitting on a rock, he played his reed flute, a sad tune, and we would weep.

His furry legs and hooves tapped out the rhythms on the rocks.

Hecate, the goddess of the witches, also joined us. She particularly appeared when the moon was full. She would just step out from behind an oak tree as if she’d been there all along.

She could sing and, knowing their names, she called to the owls.

We were real witches, so we were untouchable, like fog or foam on the sea, as far as the witch hunts went. We looked like real men or women, and acted like them, we even lived among humans.

But we witches had special powers that made us too clever to be captured. It wasn’t voluntary or something active that we did. It was like we had an invisible shield around us so we couldn’t be accused of witchcraft or imprisoned.

No one was safe, man or woman, from being accused, except of course, ironically, we real witches. We were never caught.

However, governments did apprehend and imprison ordinary people, the unlucky, usually those without money, social connections and political power. Aged, outcast, impoverished, eccentric people who were disliked by their neighbors or involved in disputes were accused of being “witches”.

If there was a bad harvest, or if someone suddenly died, or if there was a freak weather incident….these events were due to “witches”. A convenient scapegoat was then chosen and tried.

Our local feudal lord, Findley Macbeth, the Thane of Glamis, accused almost 100 innocent women of using cats in spells to make freak storms imperil his ships crossing the North Sea. According to the anonymous writ denouncing the women, they had done the spells by swinging stray cats around their heads and casting them from cliffs into the choppy waters.

A few months later he denounced beautiful young Maeve, a servant in his castle, saying that she had bewitched one of his horses and made it go lame.

Maeve’s trial, and those of the women who had “stirred up the winds”, ended with guilty verdicts and vicious executions.

We real witches felt great sympathy for these innocent victims.

Then, our festivities weren’t quite as festive. Our heads drooped, our dances slowed. Pan also seemed troubled and pre-occupied.

With each new human victim of the witch hunts, our outrage grew and we, the real witches, became more and more convinced that something needed to be done.

A lesson needed to be taught, and we were the ones to do it.

“There are whispers that Maeve refused Macbeth’s kisses. That was why he accused her of making his horse lame”, Elayne, my sister, told us one evening in Birnam Wood as we witches gathered in a circle for our festivities, “he had her tortured for days in her cell in revenge. Finally, she was burned alive in the public square.”

“Let’s burn him in revenge!” George, the blacksmith, said.

“We’d best wait for Hecate to come, when there’s a full moon. She must decide what is to be done!” a woman’s voice called out.

But I was so furious that I didn’t want to wait for Hecate’s permission or ideas. The full moon was weeks away.

“It is Findlay Macbeth who has accused and tried witches and stirred this pot until it boils. Let’s go after him!” I said impulsively, feeling a fit of self-consciousness blushing when everyone stared at me.

“But he must know it was us!” said Gellis, a young herbal medicine healer, “just having him die in a riding accident or due to the plague will not carry our imprimatur. He must know us by our colors when this fatal game is over. He must see. He must understand that the hands of witches have personally brought him down.”

“Yes!” I agreed with enthusiasm, “yet we must vanish in time!”

Three of us were selected. Me, because I had suggested targeting Macbeth and now I was somewhat responsible for the mission; Gellis, because she was quick with spells; and Jonet, because she was good with theatrics, prophecies and poetry. We called ourselves Witch One, Witch Two and Witch Three.

“We’ll wait on the heath, on the road to Forres”, I suggested, “When he finds us on his way back from the battle he’s fighting now against the Norwegians, we’ll fill his head with poisonous and fantastical ideas.”

Just then there was the sound of hoof beats galloping and into the clearing rode my gallant husband, Banquo.

Banquo jumped down from his horse and he gave me a passionate kiss. He was a witch who could only attend our dances and festivities occasionally due to his demanding schedule as a fighter, a soldier and a skillful administrator in Findley Macbeth’s administration. He was a mole, working for Macbeth as a spy for us witches.

“Sorry I’m late”, he said, “We’re still fighting the Norwegians. I couldn’t get away easily until after it got dark. Did I miss anything?”

I explained about our plan to use dooming prophecies to take revenge on Macbeth for the women who had been executed. I was a bit nervous. After all, he worked side by side with Macbeth.

“I’ll help you”, he said levelly, “Macbeth deserves whatever revenge you can devise.”

A murmur of approval rose up in the crowd.

“Macbeth is hoping to be promoted”, Banquo said. “His fondest hope is to become king.”

“We maybe could use that”, said Jonet.

“You can reveal to him a prophecy that my descendants will be kings, not his. That information will send him over the edge. He’ll no doubt try to have me killed.”

 “Witches aren’t immortal”, I said quietly but firmly, “there’s no reason for you to put yourself in danger.”

“No problem. I can take care of myself.” He gave me a sly wink, “I’m a witch too, remember.”

We had some weeks to prepare. Battles involving Macbeth and the other generals and thanes raged on the inhospitable heath for weeks and we knew we’d have to wait until these bloody conflicts ended. We needed Macbeth to be alone and unhurried, not preoccupied with fighting. Instead, we spent time with our familiars and tried to get into our roles. For our familiars, I chose my gray cat, Graymalkin; Gellis selected her favorite toad, Paddock; and Jonet decided to ask Harpier, not a pet exactly, like the other two, but a wild raven she sometimes did spells with, to help.

There was one more problem. As wife of Banquo, the Thane of Lochabar, I knew Findley Macbeth socially due to the fact that the thanes and we wives attended parties for the king. In those days, Banquo was posted in Forres, near Glamis, due to the fact that Lochabar, his estate in the northern Highlands, was remote and inconvenient and no battles ever happened there. Banquo and I were provided with a little house in Forres, near the barracks, in which to live.

So of course I would have to disguise myself. And Gellis and Jonet felt that elderly wise women would make the most convincing witches as they would be the most stereotypical and expected type of witch.

To practice, we did spells to transform ourselves into three elderly women, withered and wild in our attire of torn black capes and long skirts variously moss green and dark violet. One day we gathered in Jonet’s garden, next to a hawthorn hedge during a lightning storm.

“When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?” I shrieked, ex tempore, into the storm.

Rain drops splashing down her face, Gellis exclaimed, gripping my wrists, “When the hurly-burly’s done, When the battle’s lost and won.”

Jonet’s turn next. I wondered what she would come up with. She had a gift for poetry.

“That will be ere the set of sun.” A mischievous smile on her lips, Jonet said the words in a voice like honey, smooth and magical.

We had to please, or Macbeth wouldn’t listen.

We needed to be good.

We shivered pleasurably, holding hands now in a circle, the wind blowing our shredded garments into a thousand fighting banners.

 It was my turn.

“Where the place?” Short and practical, a counterpoint to the poetic and lyrical.

“Upon the heath”, answered Gellis, in perfect rhythm.

Jonet’s turn again.

“There to meet with Macbeth.” Eyes now flashing against the gray sky, she spat out his hated name with musical glee.

On another occasion, while practicing at dusk, and hidden in the tall reeds on the banks of the Loch of Forfar, we devised an impromptu and macabre routine.

I started by asking Gellis, “Where hast thou been, sister?”

A loon swimming in the loch swooned down into the mirrors of black water without a sound.

“Killing swine”, she tossed off after the slightest pause. Witches were, of course, always and without any reason, being accused of causing the deaths of farm animals.

Jonet shot me a glance.

“Sister, where thou?” she quizzed, eyebrows arched.

In haste to prove my mettle, I jumped into a story I made up on the spot about a sailor’s wife who had refused to share her chestnuts with me. As a result I added that I would take revenge on her poor husband, vulnerable in his shaky little vessel, the Tiger, and on his way to Aleppo, Syria, to buy spices and silks from the Orient.

Does that seem unfair to you?

Why should that innocent man, a small spot in the ocean, pay for his wife’s bad manners?

But women are always the targets, are we not? The victims of the witch hunts, almost always women. We are accused of being lustful and lascivious, tempting men to sin, and of being nearer animals than men.

So my purpose was to balance the scales a bit.

I like animals and if the sailor’s wife and I are closer to animals, then I should stand with her.

So I chose the husband as my victim.

Witches are said to be vengeful, but that is a crusty lie if ever there was one.

We like when things are fair, when the scales are evenly balanced.

One grey morning, as a storm was scattering sleet like seeds in handfuls across the streets, an exhausted-looking man knocked at my door. This messenger, a witch sent by my husband, had traveled all night on foot. After I let him in, he told me that the Norwegians had just surrendered. He had some further news for me: Macbeth was going to be promoted to Thane of Cawdor but didn’t know it yet.

 Gellis, Jonet and I had only a few hours to prepare and station ourselves near but not too near the castle of Glamis, on the road from where the battle had taken place. We had to look like we were creatures of the green-gray heath, like wild birds sheltering out of the wind.

Along the road through the heath, there was an old slab of yellowish stone, almost as tall as two men, called the Serpent Stone by locals because ancient Picts had carved two entwined figures that looked like snakes on its surface. We had decided to stand beside it.

 It would lend us a mystical, antique atmosphere, but the Serpent Stone was a good walk away and we had to hurry. The weather was hideous and cold; the sleet had turned to hail, and thunder punctuated the air as we hurried on foot. We were out of breath when we arrived at the icy Serpent Stone, and we quickly did the necessary spells to transform ourselves into ancient crones: Witches One, Two and Three.

We waited some time, enough to become quite cold. There was a stiff gust of wind, and then we saw the two victorious generals, Macbeth and Banquo, come riding from the west. Macbeth made as if to continue on, but Banquo, of course, stopped and dismounted and then Macbeth had to stop as well.

Insinuating that he was unhappy about stopping in the bad weather, Macbeth loudly complained, “so foul and fair a day I have not seen”.

Banquo ignored him and tried to cover over any awkwardness by asking an innocent traveler’s question: “How far is’t call’d to Forres?” But, slightly shaking and nervous, he couldn’t wait for an answer. Pointing at us, he asked in a loud stagy voice, “what are these so wither’d and so wild in their attire?”

But Macbeth, with a scowl on his face, was pulling on the reins of his horse, as if making to continue the journey. No doubt the weather was unpleasant and he wanted to be back home to a warm fire.

Afraid to lose his audience, Banquo loudly started speaking as fast as he could: “That look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth, and yet are on’t? Live you? or are you aught that man may question?”

He had brought the topic around to divination!

We watched silently.

We tried to assume hostile, and sullen poses. We knew we were more likely to find success in seeming to have no interest.

We watched, tense, yet secretly elated, as Macbeth slowly dismounted and walked over to Banquo, whose long speech, delivered like a magician with his hands in the air, gave the impression that he was conjuring us: “You seem to understand me, By each at once her chappy finger laying upon her skinny lips: you should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.”

Macbeth held up his hand, cutting off Banquo from saying anything more.

He stepped in front of Banquo and commanded us: “Speak, if you can: what are you?”

I chanted “All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis!”

Gellis, in an ethereal white veil, like a ghost, intoned in an otherworldly voice, “All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor!”

Over the wind, Jonet, in a long black gown with a hood, screamed, “All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!” She thrust her broom in the air regally like a monarch’s scepter.

At Jonet’s provocative words, Macbeth’s mouth dropped open and his piercing cold eyes almost seemed like they would explode in fire and set his thatch of sandy thin hair ablaze. Jonet, the oracle, fixed her eyes straight ahead.

Now Banquo knew that we had caught the trout, and he played it up: “Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear things that sound so fair?” Patiently, he turned to us and repeated the prophecy as if it were already a near-certainty: “My noble partner you greet with present grace, and great prediction of noble having and of royal hope, that he seems rapt withal; to me you speak not.” He paused for effect, letting us seem to consider his words, creating dramatic effect.

Banquo continued, “If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow, and which will not, speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors nor your hate”.

We had arrived at the part where we would have to tell Banquo’s dangerous fortune. My words would put my husband in peril from this cruel and ambitious man.

But I had to keep to the script.

“Lesser than Macbeth and greater”, I said in a piercing whisper, staring intensely ahead at the air, not at my husband.

“Not so happy, yet much happier”. Glennis’ voice was chipped ice.

“Thou shalt GET KINGS, though thou BE NONE”, Jonet wailed as if in a trance, adding, almost mockingly, “So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!”

“Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!” I shouted, defiantly putting my husband’s name first.

We turned around and ran a few meters away so Macbeth wouldn’t hear our disappearing spell. Then we huddled together and said the magic words that created the necessary illusion we had vanished into the air.

Days later King Duncan was stabbed to death in bed while visiting Macbeth’s castle. Rumors flew about the identity of his killer, but nothing was proven. Banquo, of course, was there that night and knew very well that it was Macbeth who had done it.

Macbeth, as expected, was crowned king. He continued to treat Banquo with obsequious kindness and had us moved into a larger house.

However, we were certain that Banquo would be an eventual target, so we made sure to get a witch, my cousin Seyton from Edinburgh, hired as a servant in Macbeth’s castle, to spy for our side.

Seyton indeed played an important part.

Macbeth, asking around, found two men who agreed to kill Banquo after Macbeth told them many lies about how all the wrongs he’d done to them were really Banquo’s fault. But Seyton, busying himself nearby by polishing some swords, was eavesdropping on that whole conversation.

When Macbeth had finished talking to the hired killers, he dismissed them and Seyton led them to the door and in a low murmur told them they could have money provided they would accompany him to the stables. Seyton sat them down in the stables and proceeded to persuade them to only pretend to kill Banquo.

As it turned out, the two men had actually not put any credit in Macbeth’s story blaming Banquo for everything and they were relieved to have a way out of their agreement with Macbeth.

So the groom gave them some more gold and arranged with them to perform a fake attack.

The groom and the two hired killers went to the spot to wait for Banquo and Fleance. They flagged Banquo down and explained the situation. And then all of them played out a simulated ambush, with some staged shouting and screaming and throwing of rocks and mud. Then the hired killers went back to the castle, after one of them cut his finger and wiped the blood on his face to make it appear he had been violently fighting. That’s why Macbeth says “there’s blood upon thy face” to him.

Another important decision we made was for the murderers to tell Macbeth that Fleance had escaped. Then the witch’s prophecy would be still possible, a nagging weight on Macbeth.

Our plan included Banquo dressing up as a bloody ghost and materializing before Macbeth in order to drive him a bit mad. We hadn’t planned on having the haunting scene take place so soon after Banquo’s “death”, but that evening Macbeth was holding a dinner party, which Banquo and I had been invited to attend. As Banquo laughingly told me later, “I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by ignoring his kind invitation.”

So Banquo used a knife to cut a shallow harmless wound in his finger and wiped his handkerchief in the blood and wrapped his head in the handkerchief. Also, he rubbed mud and dirt on his cheeks, then he raced to the castle and stole into the grand hall just as King Macbeth was grandly greeting his guests.

Of course it had a wild effect. And because Banquo was an adept witch, he knew how to make himself only visible to Macbeth and not to the other dinner guests or even Lady Macbeth. On and off, like a firefly glowing intermittently, he appeared and disappeared, shaking his blood-stained hair at the by now horrified and trembling monarch or mischievously taking Macbeth’s seat before Macbeth could sit down.

As the noble Lady of Lochabar, I was there, of course, pretending to be dismayed and distressed both by the strange madness of our new monarch and by the unaccountable absence of my husband.

The dinner party ended very early after a broken and pale Lady Macbeth dismissed all the guests. I walked back home alone under the trees, my heart singing.

Going into the bedroom, I opened my clothes closet and found my husband half-asleep on some pillows on the floor there.

He pulled me down next to him and gave me a hug.

In the dark I touched his face and hair. His hair was clean, though slightly damp.

“How did you wash out all that blood and mud?”

“I jumped in the river on the way home and scrubbed,” Banquo said.

“I’ll have to live in this closet for a while”, he continued, “We can’t have the servants seeing me and gossiping about how I’m really still alive.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I was thinking what a relief it would be to no longer have to worry about my husband being killed by Macbeth. It had been an utter strain on us since we hadn’t been sure how Macbeth would go about it. Now Fleance, our son, who was 20, was on his way back to Lochabar, where he would hide out with our gamekeeper; and my husband was safely in a closet, where he couldn’t fight in any wars or be attacked by Macbeth.

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed you properly”, I giggled, tickling him under his arm.

A few months passed and one night, when it was a full moon, Gellis, Jonet, Banquo and I went to the clearing in Birnam Wood to dance.

Hecate stepped out from behind her oak tree and, unusual for her, had an awful scowl upon her face.

“Why, how now, Hecat? You look angerly”, I whispered, dismayed.

Hecat spoke at length, quite poetically:

“Have I not reason, beldams as you are,
Saucy and overbold? How did you dare
To trade and traffic with Macbeth
In riddles and affairs of death;
And I, the mistress of your charms,
The close contriver of ll harms,
Was never call’d to bear my part
Or show the glory of our art?”
And which is worse, all you have done
Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,
Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now: get you gone,
And at the pit of Acheon
Meet me in the morning: thither he
Will come to know his destiny.”
Your vessels and your spells provide,
Your charms and everything beside.
I am for th’ air; this night I’ll spend
Upon a dismal and fatal end.
Great business must be wrought ere noon
Upon the corner of the moon……”

After a few more theatrics, she casually adjusted her enormous midnight-blue shawl around her shoulders and swooped off on her broom into the freezing night air.

The moon was far away and she would need hours to get there.

In the silence of the wood, Jonet, Gellis and I couldn’t help but squeal with excitement, our breath white swirls of crystal mist.

Despite the fact that Hecate was upset that we had made and carried out our plans without consulting her, she had forgiven us and she was even helping us: we now knew we’d have to go to the pit of Acheron, the local nickname of a little natural cave in the side of a rocky hill near Covesea.

And we’d have to tell Macbeth his fortune again.

The next day Macbeth showed up and we were waiting for him.

My favorite prophecy continues to be the one about the forest of Birnam Wood coming to high Dunsinane Hill. Jonet and Gellis will never agree with me; they both like the one about how none of woman-born shall harm Macbeth.

Banquo, of course, enjoyed the part where he came dancing out of the shadows like an apparition, spinning and lurching around in a golden paper crown and borrowed scarlet cape.

Macbeth, unhinged, kneeling in his agony and elation, was red and gray, his face, his hands, mottled. I remember that.

In fact, I find I cannot forget it.

Now that it’s all over and Macbeth is dead and buried in the churchyard, this story is just a memory, our devious plot, our fantastical and successful adventure.

About which we witches reminisce.

And moreover, we still attend the witches’ dances in Birnam Wood.

The End

Book launches at Home with Malcolm Ledger

John D. presenting ‘Kyoto: A Literary Guide’ (photo Malcolm Ledger)

Authors’ presentation and social event, Nov 15.
Report by Felicity Tillack (photos by her unless otherwise stated)

On a beautiful November Sunday afternoon in northern Kyoto city, the WiK members congregated for a special social and celebratory event. 

The main reason for the gathering was to support authors whose books were published in the time of corona. As Rebecca Otowa mentioned in her talk, “Authors this year have had no publicity, no support, nothing.” 

Equally enjoyable was the chance to see the beautiful home of Malcolm Ledger, and the autumn colours of the hills and forest around it.

Photo by Malcolm Ledger

Members arrived around 2pm, and had a fine selection of dips and drinks prepared by Malcolm and his partner. Old friends and new acquaintances got a chance to meet and mingle.

Then Malcolm led tours around his impressive house. A renovated ryokan, the building is 60 years old and boasts 17 rooms. One is available to rent via Airbnb, so that guests can have a more personal experience. Other rooms include Malcolm’s library, a comfortable catio and rooms set aside for enjoying listening to the sound of the river.

Once the tours were complete, it was on to the main event. Rebecca Otowa was first and she gave an insightful introduction to how she became an author as well as a preview of her third book, The Mad Kyoto Shoe Swapper.

Patrick Hochner went next. He spoke too about the process of pitching and preparing his photo book, 100 Kyoto Sights that he collaborated on with John Dougill. 

Finally, John Dougill spoke about the anthology that he and members of his long running Poetry in Translation group had worked together to create. The editorial team included Paul Carty, Joe Cronin and Itsuyo Higashinaka, who were all present. Called, Kyoto, A Literary Guide, it is a collection of poems, in both English and Japanese, about Kyoto. Two of those attending, Ken Rodgers and Chris Mosdell, contributed poems to the anthology.

After the presentations were complete, members had the chance to pick up the books at a discount, and score the signature of the author to boot.

The evening closed with a tasty selection of sushi that Malcolm had kindly prepared. 

The event was a huge success and a wonderful chance to meet other members again and hear about the endeavours of the many talented authors the group boasts. All going well, it will not be the last chance to meet up in person this year. 

Writers in Kyoto Present the Sixth Annual Kyoto Writing Competition

  • THEME: Kyoto (English language submissions only)
  • DEADLINE: March 31st, 2021 (Midnight JST)
  • GENRE: Short Shorts (unpublished material only)
  • WORD LIMIT: 300 Words (to fit on a single page)
  • FORM: Short poems, character studies, essays, travel tips, whimsy, haiku sequence, haibun, wordplays, dialogue, experimental verse, etc. In short, anything that helps show the spirit of place in a fresh light.

Submission Requirements

  • Limited to one submission per person
  • You do not need to be located in Kyoto to participate. We accept submissions from anywhere in the world.
  • Must be submitted by Microsoft Word attachment file. (Submissions by PDF attachment will NOT be accepted.)
  • At the top of the Microsoft Word attachment (not in the body of the e-mail), please include the following: Full Name, E-mail Contact, Nationality, Current Residence (Town, Country).
  • Do not provide any special formatting to your piece. We request your information at the top with the text directly below.
  • Please send your Microsoft Word attachment file to: kyotowritingcompetition2021@gmail.com

Top Prizes

First Prize: ¥30,000, Kyoto Prize (To Be Decided), One-year complimentary WiK membership (April 2021 – March 2022), publication on the Writers in Kyoto website, and inclusion in the WiK Anthology

Second and Third Prize: Kyoto Prize (To Be Decided), Zen Gardens and Temples of Kyoto by John Dougill and John Einarsen, publication on the Writers in Kyoto website, and inclusion in the WiK Anthology

Publishing Rights/Copyright

Writers in Kyoto reserve the right to publish entries on the group’s website. Winning entries will be eligible for publication in the WiK Anthology. Authors retain the copyright of their own work.

Local Prizes

Japan Local Prize: A selected ceramic piece from the Robert Yellin Yakimoto Gallery 

USA PrizePhila-Nipponica: An Historic Guide to Philadelphia & Japan and one-year complimentary Japan-America Society of Greater Philadelphia membership

Kyoto prizes are generously provided by the Kyoto City Tourism Association.  Phila-Nipponica: An Historic Guide to Philadelphia & Japan is awarded by the Japan-America Society of Greater Philadelphia. This competition is also supported by Kyoto Journal and Kyoto International Community House.

The WiK Competition logo was designed by Rebecca Otowa, author of The Mad Kyoto Shoe SwapperAt Home in Japan, and My Awesome Japan Adventure.

For More Information about Writers in Kyoto 

  • Writers in Kyoto website: https://writersinkyoto.com/
  • Writers in Kyoto anthologies available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions:

Echoes: WiK Anthology 2 (2017) ed. John Dougill, Amy Chavez and Mark Richardson

Encounters with Kyoto: WiK Anthology 3 (2019) ed. Jann Williams and Ian Josh Yates

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Essential Work (Short story)

by Lisa Twaronite Sone

Not to brag, but my cash drawer always balances at the end of my shift. Not once in all of my decades behind a register has it ever gone over, or come up short.

If you understand how busy supermarkets can get, you’ll appreciate how miraculous this is. But really, it’s no miracle, just hard work and discipline.

I’ve always paid close attention, which is why I’ve always known my place in life. Since early childhood, I figured out that I had better not waste my time and energy hoping for anything spectacular. So I learned to find joy in the moment: a pretty flower in someone’s garden, a hot drink on a cold morning, the relief of sinking into a soft bed at night. I’ve always had a roof over my head, plenty to eat, and good health, and it’s amazing how few people realize this is enough. More than enough.

I’ve also been lucky to work at a job I find meaningful. What I do might seem unimportant on the surface, but I know it isn’t: humans have to eat to survive, and I’m a link in the chain that brings food from its place of origin to the people it sustains. Even before the pandemic, I knew my work was vital to keep society humming along, nourished.

My job also gives me a unique opportunity to serve, which I have come to realize is a great honor.

I start by examining every customer that approaches my register. They don’t even notice me looking at them, because honestly, I’ve never been noticeable — I’ve grown even plainer in middle age, and wearing my protective face mask these days has rendered me almost invisible. I might as well be one of those new automatic checkout machines that will eventually replace me.

There’s an infinite number of customer types, but I can fit everyone into a few basic categories.

First, there are the suffering wretches. I can feel their pain as they shuffle past me, without even looking at the bottomless despair in their eyes. Some of them are clearly homeless and disheveled, while others are well-dressed in fancy clothes. I will never know what kind of ghastly problems they have, but there’s nothing I can do to help them unless they ask, and no one ever has. So I check them through as efficiently as possible, with a silent prayer that they may find peace.

Then there are the beautiful ones — the kind of beauty that makes you stop and stare, and wonder how nature could have created something like that. But such beauty is both a blessing and a curse, so I need not do anything to help balance these people. How many of them will end up trapped in miserable marriages, or die alone? My guess is at least half of them, just based on people I’ve known. So I quickly check these customers through, too, and pray that their beauty brings them joy, not sorrow.

The rich people sometimes overlap with the beautiful people, but not always. I’m very good at weeding out those who only pretend to be rich, with their flashy designer clothes and expensive jewelry. The truly rich people wear understated clothing, but if you look very closely, you can see hand-tailoring, and their simple classic jewelry was handed down to them from wealthy ancestors. They wear everything so naturally that it looks as if it all grew from their own skin. But just like beauty, wealth is a curse just as often as it’s a blessing. I check these people through the quickest of all, and I pray their riches don’t corrupt them, and that they use it for good, not evil.

There are too many categories to describe here, but at least once a day, I find the kind of person who needs balance.

It’s usually a woman, though not always. She’s often plain like me, but she carries herself as if she’s beautiful, which is the first sign. She might indeed be beautiful inside, in which case I don’t need to do anything, so it’s very important to be certain.

I always give her a chance, as I do with every customer. I smile and greet her, and sometimes, she makes eye contact and returns my greeting, or even smiles back at me. That’s a sign that everything is in balance, so I can just check her through quickly with my usual silent prayer.

Sometimes, though, she scowls and ignores me. She considers herself too far above me, to waste her time interacting with a supermarket cashier. These people frequently wear their face masks down round their chins — annoyed that something is interfering with their right to optimal oxygen, I suppose.

I’ve recognized this type of person since I was in school: the kids who were plain like me, and below-average students like me, but for some reason, they felt entitled to the best of everything. The funny part was that the more they acted as if they deserved this, the more teachers gave them what they wanted — the role in the school play even though they had no talent, the spot on the cheerleading team when they couldn’t do a handstand in the tryouts, and, saddest for me, the grades they didn’t earn.

I would turn in my mediocre homework assignments and end up with wretched grades, whereas they would do identical work and somehow end up shining. Their parents were the type who followed up every bad grade with a call to the principal to complain about the teacher, while my parents were too busy eking out a living to care about how I did in school — or even if I went at all, for that matter.

The entitled kids didn’t even have to get top grades, because they knew their parents would pay for them to go to college somewhere, whereas I knew mine would certainly not, and that my grades were far too low to get any scholarships. Of course, I later realized none of this mattered, as I was able to find meaningful work to support my simple, satisfying life — but when I was a teenager, I admit I used to gnash my teeth over the unfairness of it all, and even cry myself to sleep.

I’m happy to say I haven’t cried about anything in decades. When I meet these people now, I feel only peace, and a sense of purpose.

As I ring up the woman’s groceries, I look carefully for the perfect item, and I always find it. It’s never the frozen lobster tails or the bottles of wine. It’s always something small, like the tiny wedge of blue cheese that she intends to crumble onto her salad.

I’ve been doing this for so many years that my moves are as smooth as a magician’s. When she isn’t looking, I ring up her cheese, and then I “accidentally” drop it. It slides gently down my leg, and I push it under the shelf with my foot, to be retrieved when my shift ends — and then later that evening, I will spread it on my toast — a tiny karmic reward for me, surely, but that isn’t the main purpose.

She’ll have to eat her salad with no cheese. At first she’ll probably blame me for forgetting to ring it up or bag it, but then she’ll wonder if maybe she herself left it in her shopping basket, or dropped it somewhere? Or did she even remember to buy it at all? She’ll question herself, just a bit, or maybe even a lot. She’ll feel uneasy. When I pray for such people, I always remind myself that they’re among those who need help most of all, because they’re charging through life with a total lack of awareness — and is such a life really worth living?

Rarely, the entitled people do return to complain about their missing items, waving their receipts and demanding to see the manager. They always get what they came for, because the manager never challenges them, and lets them take a replacement item. In these cases, I make sure to return my dropped item to the shelf, so that it doesn’t skew the store’s inventory. I won’t get to enjoy it myself later, but that’s all right — sometimes, the item itself simply isn’t part of restoring the balance. The universe just wanted to send them a minor inconvenience, and after all, the exact way everything unfolds isn’t for me to decide.

One day, something a little different happened.

The woman returned to the store, and approached me, not the manager. She yanked her mask down — to enhance annunciation, I assume — and aimed a manicured finger in my general direction, as if I weren’t worthy of being pointed out directly. “My avocado wasn’t in my bag, and I’m sure I saw HER take it!”

The manager, a young man, rushed over to see what the problem was. Store managers are like everyone else — which is to say, a few of them are power-hungry sociopaths who take pleasure in the misery of others. But the vast majority just want to do their jobs and go home every day with the least amount of trouble, and this manager was fortunately like most.

“May I help you?” he asked the woman.

“She stole my avocado! I saw her! Look, she rang it up, it’s on the receipt, but it wasn’t in my bag!”

The manager was already looking down at the floor, where he spotted the little oval shadow under the shelf.

“Ah, there it is! She must have dropped it!” he said cheerfully to the woman, and then sternly to me, “You need to be more careful.”

I didn’t take his warning personally. I knew that he probably wouldn’t even remember my name if it weren’t on my badge. If he had any impression of me at all, he saw a harmless, middle-aged woman who never argued with anyone, who showed up early for her shifts, who didn’t complain if she had to stay late, and whose cash drawer always balanced.

But the woman didn’t give up. “She dropped it on purpose! I SAW her!”

The manager shifted uncomfortably and fiddled with the straps of his mask.

I did what I had always done whenever kids at school tried to bully me: I wiped all expression off my face, and pretended I was made of air. I held my breath.

The woman sneered, “I want her fired. I’m calling your corporate headquarters to say you have a thief working for you!”

And that was her mistake. She should have just kept insisting that she saw me drop her avocado on purpose, and no doubt she would have been sent on her way with an even deeper apology and maybe some really good coupons. But she went a step too far and threatened to go over the manager’s head, so he wasn’t going to play her game anymore.

“Ma’am, this appears to be an accident,” he said, and then for good measure, he said to me one more time, “You need to be more careful.”

The woman, unsatisfied, stomped out of the store — leaving behind her perfectly ripe avocado, forgotten on the floor under the shelf. I could already taste its smooth green flesh on my toast.

But first, I needed to pray for her, and then I had another hour left on my shift before I could balance my cash drawer, punch out, and go home.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

The Wind’s Word by James Woodham

The Wind’s Word
(all photos by the author)

intricate scripture –
each leaf’s quiver the wind’s word
on a page of air

snail on his way
down the rain soaked road
easy grace of line

shadows of bamboo
score a melody of wind
on the old stone wall

crow carries its cry
to the heights of the pine tree
then on into sky

cry of the crow pure
and meaningless as the wash
of waves on the shore

cicada insists
till its presence addresses
surfing the silence

woman in full bloom
pregnant with her future joy
swelling summer sun

sunbathing truly
is lying meditation –
breathing ocean

yellow leaves tumbling
on the tail of the typhoon
mountain sighing

under the big blue
laid out in such opulence
hills’ fall brocade

out of the mountains
momentary birdcall
lost in sky

the deserted shore
heron flaps the lake’s surface
owning shadow

lake the palest blue
the sky listens to itself
spilling birdsong

crested grebe dives
the lake gathering its thoughts
yielding grebe again

the mind’s erasure –
ninja of the poem
stealing into silence

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

For previous contributions by James Woodham, please see the striking poems and stunning photography here.  Or here. Or here. Or here. For his previous posting, A Single Thread, see here.

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Chikubujima (Edward J. Taylor)

It takes some time getting to Chikubujima. You first must take a train up to Biwa’s narrow northern shoulder, eternally bullied by the brawny peaks of Hirasan above. A boat will then take you to the island. On approach it looks in decay, centuries of guano having stripped many of the trees and eroded the slopes. Just off the boat, a photographer snipes you paparazzi style, then later will try to bilk you of 1000 yen. A flight of very steep steps begin here, leading up to the main grounds. Our group of five detours first to the shrine. Along the way, a couple of smaller shrines hug the islands ridges, one to the white snake god (which I now know is a manifestation of Benzaiten/Benten) and another to the black dragon god of rain. It is easy to imagine the latter, rolling slowly across the waters of the lake, to wreak fury on the islanders who’d chosen to live in the middle of one of the oldest lakes in the world. No one lives there now, except for a handful of priests. One of them sells religious trinkets in a small structure that seemed to defy gravity. For a couple hundred yen you can buy two small disks, write prayers on them, then fling them sidearm through the torii arch that rests on a rocky promontory below.

We wander down a small path to find a cluster of buildings that offers the required view and place to sit. Lunchtime. Above us, cormorants play gargoyle in the bare trees. Now and again a hawk will cruise by, eyeing our food but acting cool about it. We follow the trail a bit more down to the water, where we find what has probably been an old boat launch. Compared to the busy port on the other side of the island, this is very low tech, with a mere two pieces of rope. I wonder how many monks escape at night, to row over to mainland bars and brothels.

We walk back through the shrine and up to the Buddhist buildings above. There used to be more of a fusion here, but now the two religions have been sent to their neutral corners. The buildings are amongst the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, with gorgeous curved roofs, faded wood, and detailed animal carvings. Hōgonji’s main hall elicits respect as it climbs skyward above the trees. Among other things, there is a carving of En-no-Gyōja here (though under a different name), a long hall built from the wood of warlord Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s boat, and Kannon statues showing her in all her various manifestations, as if it were Oscar night. Plus the obligatory statue of Kobo Daishi standing proudly overlooking all.

I stop by the noykojo and get my last stamp of the Saikoku Kannon 33 Temple pilgrimage. I’m quiet for a while after this, and I’m not sure why. When I started this pilgrimage in June 2002, I did it for my former father-in-law, then diagnosed with stomach cancer. I’m not much one for prayer, but I want to dedicate the spirit of my efforts to him and his fight. Little did I know then that I’d lose my own son four months later, with my father-in-law following three months to the day after that. I suppose my quiet today is due to their being with me as I close this sacred circle.

As we make our way back down to the boats, dragonflies swirl above us, appropriate to an island where the spirits of the dead are reputed to live. The ride back is cooler, the humidity and clouds of the morning burned off, the sky rich and blue, the details of the surrounding peaks vivid. A short walk off the ferry in Omi Imazu we find a quiet stretch of beach and baptize ourselves in the waters of the lake. Later, back in Kyoto, we’ll take sacrament in the form of pizza and beer.

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

For more by Edward J. Taylor, please check out this travel piece along Korea’s east coast, or this account of the Hoshi Matsuri, or this personal account of Japan’s hosting of the World Cup, or this article on visiting Cuba, or this lighthearted look at walking along the Kamogawa.

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