Writers In Kyoto

Page 19 of 65

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Three Poems by Andrew Ashleigh Kozelka

February 14, 2022

Japan

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

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

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

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

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


The Eye Itself

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

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

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

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


But Anyway

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

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

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

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

A Rock has a Hundred Faces

February 7, 2022

by Stephen Benfey

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

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

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

—Keeping a low profile.

I lifted an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

—Sort of. So?

—A stone has a thousand faces, he said.

I nodded, ignoring the ten-fold proliferation.

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

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

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

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

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

—He was clear about the location, I said.

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

—So?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was like I was viewing the scene in Cinemascope …

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

I nodded again.

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

This was a new twist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sawamura was staring at me.

—How many? I asked, swallowing.

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

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

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

—Wakatta kai?

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

—Homma kai na? Sawamura said. You sure?

—Hai, I said.

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

No, I thought, not that B.S.

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

I’d never been to one.

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

—I don’t think so, I said.

He lit the cigarette.

—What was that about evil spirits? I asked.

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

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

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

—Nine-tenths of every rock? Really?

—What do you think? Sawamura said.

—So what’s to worry?

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

Coda:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

###

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

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Yin-yang, symbolism and the Gion Festival

February 2, 2022

by Jann Williams (January 26, 2022)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

References and further information:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Meander Meets the New Year

January 30, 2022

by Stephen Benfey

The temple bell rang long and loud that night.

Dogs howled.

Cats like Meander played.

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

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

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

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

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

The nerve! Meander thought, especially after last night!

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

Helene screeched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few tourists were already strolling in the morning chill.

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

Crazy humans!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writers in focus

A.J. Pomez

January 25, 2022

Pomez by one-time WiK member, AJ Dickinson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writers in focus

David Joiner (‘Kanazawa’)

January 23, 2022

This interview celebrates David Joiner’s new novel Kanazawa, published by Stone Bridge Press.

1) Why Kanazawa?

Kanazawa has a rich literary history, and as a resident there I encountered it often while exploring the city. It boasts museums not only to several of its most famous writers, but also to the city’s literary history; a literary hall where events are sometimes held; temples that commemorate famous Kanazawa writers and poets; streets and parks named after Kanazawa writers; statues erected to these writers and even to some of their more famous characters. I’ve even seen sweets named after Izumi Kyoka, Kanazawa’s most famous writer. Some local ryokan also proudly display photos and writing implements of Kanazawa writers who stayed there. I was aware of many of these things before my wife and I moved to Kanazawa, but once we became residents of the city this respect for literature really seeped into my consciousness. And I soon decided I’d try to write something that might bring me closer to the city’s literary history and contribute what little I could to the cultural life of where we lived. I also thought it worthwhile to try to write and get published the first literary novel in English to be set in Kanazawa. Because it had never been done, I was lucky to have had the chance to write about whatever I pleased without worrying over what anyone else had done before.

2) This is your second published novel. How does it compare with the first?

It’s a little hard to compare them since my first novel, Lotusland, was set in Vietnam and made use of the decade I lived there. I suppose there are similarities, though. Particularly in telling a story in third person from the point of view of an American man deeply immersed in, and appreciative of, the foreign culture where he lives. And also being romantically involved with a local woman who helps him delve more deeply into her culture. Both novels focus on bringing aspects of those cultures onto the page. In Lotusland, I explored Vietnamese lacquer painting to a great extent. In Kanazawa, the cultural focus falls on, among other things, Japanese literature, specifically the life and work of Izumi Kyoka. I also devote space in the novel to the sculptures that grace the city, and my characters also create ikebana and draw and paint. Lotusland also focuses on the lingering effects of wartime Agent Orange use on the Vietnamese population, but Kanazawa shines no equivalent spotlight on such important societal issues.

3) How has the reception been so far?

Thankfully, no reviews I’ve read (yet) have indicated that readers detest it, and no readers have cursed me that I know of. Some readers have complained that it’s too slow for their tastes, whereas others have expressed an appreciation for how I’ve allowed the story to deliberately and quietly unfold. The Japan Times, Books on Asia, The Foreword Review, and Asia Media International have all recently reviewed Kanazawa. I’m happy to say that all of those reviews have been positive. People seem to appreciate that my novel is set outside Tokyo and Kyoto, settings which tend to dominate books on Japan written by foreigners.

David Joiner’s talk to WiK in October 2015 about marketing his first novel, Lotusland

4) You gave a talk to WiK about marketing an earlier book. Is that something you thought of doing for this book?

I think it’s unavoidable if one wants to be read. My publisher, Stone Bridge Press, has its own publicist, and he’s done an incredible job of reaching out to people in the publishing world and literary sphere to try to promote the novel. Small presses, however, have a difficult time attracting the attention given as a matter of course to books – sometimes very bad ones – published by the Big 5 publishers. In any case, my publisher has done a lot in terms of marketing, and though I’ve done my part as well, it’s been difficult for me, on my own, to bring much attention to Kanazawa. But I view this sort of marketing as a long-term commitment, so I’m not done yet trying to increase the novel’s readership over time.

5) What is the most difficult part of being a novelist, would you say?

In terms of writing, just finding the time and space to immerse myself in my work. I have a lot going on now that’s become a distraction, things that I’m not used to dealing with. But in and of itself, writing a novel isn’t particularly difficult. (And if I can do it, anyone can.) Probably the most difficult part is finding readers. If you spend years writing a book, what’s the point of it all if no one ever reads it? That can be a difficult hurdle to overcome. Without big money to advertise my novel, many readers will never know that Kanazawa even exists. It can also be hard to find readers who are open to stories set in foreign cultures, and readers open to someone such as myself who chooses to set his stories in them.

6) What advice would you have for budding novelists in WiK?

Persist. Persist in whatever you’ve decided to write and persist also in trying to find the right publisher, if you want a traditional publisher. And by “right,” I mean a publishing team that really appreciates what you’ve created, what it’s taken you to create it, and who shares the same vision for putting it out into the world.

7) What next?

Two or three things. I’ve finished and have out on submission a second “Ishikawa novel” called The Heron Catchers. It’s quite a bit darker than Kanazawa and is set both in Kanazawa and Yamanaka Onsen (where my wife and I have a home). I’m also still working on a novel I’ve been writing off and on for 20 years, which is set in Vietnam and Cambodia in the early 1990s. And I’d like to write another “Ishikawa novel” soon. I’ve started a third one but have set it aside until I can devote more time and energy to it.

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Read David Joiner on Izumi Kyoka here. For the opening chapter of The Heron Catchers, click here. For a 14 minute video feature about his Vietnam novel, Lotusland, see here. For more about David and his writing, please see his author website.

Writers in focus

Winter Wonderings of Body and Mind

January 18, 2022


By Edward Levinson (aka Edo 恵道)

hot water bottle
memories of mother
warm me

湯たんぽや母の思い出暖める
yutanpo ya, haha no omoide, atatameru


My earliest months living in Japan were in Kyoto. It was late fall and getting colder every day. Slowly I got used to the chilly (soon to be frigid) old wooden Japanese houses. One winter morning I tried Zen sitting with an American friend who was deep into it at Myōshinji Temple. I quickly decided that way of meditation was not for me but I liked the idea of walking up and down the hardwood hallways, part of the practice between sittings during the longer sesshin retreat sessions.

(All photos by Ed Levinson)

Later living in an old farmhouse in Chiba I tried staying barefoot during the winter, walking around on the cold un-insulated floors thinking of strong-minded Zen monks or another hero model, the barefoot St. Francis. Perhaps I wasn’t tough enough. It simply aggravated the chronic shimo yaki (chilblains) on my toes. Even now, living in a modern house of mixed Western and Japanese design, the toes still get bothered. Cold feet cry out for more movement inspiring this winter poem:

Get Out

Cold white breath
hot tea steaming
sun rays fill eyes
floats in cup.

Wind whips it up outside
while I sit
behind doubled pane glass
trying to go Inside.

Get Out!
Sit stand walk run
where wind blows
idle thoughts,
chill awakens
present moment,
Sun burns
cloudy image of
myself.

No Mantra Needed
Going…Going…Gone.

Many of my poems are after the style of Nanao Sakaki (1923-2008), a well-known Japanese vagabond poet. Friend Taylor Mignon introduced a homage poem to Nanao by calling him “Japan’s First Hippie”. Nanao’s poems and his persona have had a big influence on my writing and seeing. Even though I gave up the vagabond way a long time ago after hitchhiking from Kyoto to Tokyo in the middle of a cold winter night to start a new life, I am still tempted to roam again. Several of my experiences with Nanao were actually on the road in Kyoto.

One night in the late 90’s I bumped into Nanao on a Kyoto side street. We were both on our way to hear a Ram Dass lecture at Honen-in Temple. Nanao looked weighed down. His backpack was shockingly heavy. “Too Many Books!” he sighed and laughed. It reminded me of the story of the poet Rumi, when another wilder mystic, Shams Tabrizi, threw Rumi’s precious manuscripts into a deep well. Nanao, even as a wondering poet, knew the world and cared deeply about it. You can find it in his poems.

Another night, a group of admirers and I were with Nanao, sitting on the steps of a forest lodge in Kyoto drinking sake from Japanese teacups as we listened to him discourse on the use (or more exactly the non-use) of toilet paper. His philosophy on that and other environmental and consumerism issues comes back to me often when sitting…in the water closet. You could see it in his actions.

The next day we both were presenters at an environmental activist event, which ended with a march down Kyoto’s Marutamachi Dori ringing bells, chanting slogans, beating on drums. Nanao loved to march… anytime, anywhere, for a healthy mind and planet. And balance it with sitting. You felt it in his heart.

A free-range poet rocks like a rolling stone, to somewhat mix metaphors. This ending poem is homage to Nanao to whom I give thanks. It seems appropriate for a new year or anytime when we need reminding of simple things we can do to make the world a better place.

Never Mind

Never mind the chaos
Suns shine among us.

Walk on air
Talk keep fair

Float with moon
Note good friends

Raft on a cloud
Laugh at a dog

Cry at war
Sigh at crisis

Dial up your game
Smile on your same

Climb a tree
Mime a mentor

Envelop the natural
Develop a talent

Chance in a room
Dance a tune

Never mind the chaos
Suns shine among us.

Notes:

“Get Out” was recently published as part of my prose essay “Growing Old With Grace” in What Keeps me Going, A Fine Line Press Collection, 2021

“Never Mind” was published in the Tokyo Poetry Journal, Vol. 6 (Summer 2018) along with a shorter poem version of the Kyoto encounters with Nanao.

Recommended introduction to Nanao Sakaki’s poetry: Break the Mirror, The Poems of Nanao Sakaki, North Point Press 1987

For quick background on Nanao on Wikipedia

“Lao Tsu”, a Nanao homage poem, by Taylor Mignon in Japlish Whiplish, Printed Matter Press 2010

More from Edward Levinson on WiK
Self-Introduction
Smiling With Light

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Electronic musician Hajime Fukuma

January 15, 2022


An appreciation by Yuki Yamauchi

‘Live in Heaven’

On the afternoon of January 7th, many news outlets such as Gigazine and Oricon News reported the death of Hajime Fukuma, a 51-year-old electronic musician and composer. This followed the official announcement on his website that he had died, aged 51, of an aortic aneurysm on the first day of this year.

Born in 1970, the Osaka Prefecture native started his music career in the mid-1980s. He won wider fame in 1994, when he joined P-Model, a legendary techno-pop band in which he played the synthesizer until they broke up six years later. He went on to participate in Yapoos (2000-2005), a band led by avant-pop singer Jun Togawa, and he organised his own unit, soyuz project.

In 2015, Fukuma followed a hunch and moved to Kyoto. He released two solo albums, “Flowers” in the same year and “this is our music” in 2020. For the latter album, the musician carried out a field recording at a hospital in the Nishijin area of Kyoto.

After the relocation, his first live show in Kyoto took place at the Garden of Fine Arts in April, 2016. At that time, he performed in front of an audience with the museum’s ceramic reproduction of “The Last Judgment” by Michelangelo in the background.

Fukuma continued to display his prowess at music venues such as Modern Times in the Kiyamachi area in November, 2016, and green & garden, close to Kyoto Sanjo Shopping Street in August, 2017. The following October he chose the main hall of Ryugan-ji, a Buddhist temple near Kyoto Station, as a concert venue and turned the place into a space filled with futuristic electronic sounds.

Last year, as revealed in the announcement of his passing, he devoted himself to taking care of his health so as to resume his creative activity over the coming year. That said, the synthesizer expert took part in an improvised session at Live Spot Rag, a music cafe in the Kiyamachi area. Unfortunately, the impromptu piece, titled “Red LaBre Code,” ended up becoming Fukuma’s swan song, who parted from the body that had suffered for seven years from the aneurysm.

Many Twitter users in Japan, including those who had worked with him, reacted with sorrow to his sudden parting. Ryugan-ji was no exception, posting a tweet together with a photograph of the late virtuoso in rehearsal. It reads:

Thank you, Fukuma-san. Our temple has a history of over 400 years, and it may have been during your live performance that the main hall became the most similar to the Pure Land.

Kyoto is attractive not only thanks to its traditional aspects, but because of its willingness to accept innovative things, as shown by the presence of contemporary art museums and the longevity of Kyoto Experiment (an annual festival featuring contemporary performing arts). The death of Fukuma, who helped Kyoto’s non-traditional side thrive, has become a loss for the city’s ability to draw a wide variety of visitors. I would like this article to be a reminder of the unorthodox musician and also a support for the power of Kyoto’s unconventional culture.


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References:
(link to the Gigazine article about the passing of Hajime Fukuma)
(link to the Oricon News article about the passing of Hajime Fukuma)
( why he moved to Kyoto)
(about where he lived, the city of Kyoto)
(about the field recording in Kyoto)
(about his live performance at Garden of Fine Arts Kyoto)

Structures of Kyoto (WiK Anthology 4) Review by Irish Author Jean Pasley

January 5, 2022

Writers in Kyoto would like to extend heartfelt thanks to our friends at the Ireland Japan Association (IJS) for their assistance in promoting our fourth anthology, Structures of Kyoto, across the Emerald Isle. Structures of Kyoto is now housed in the library of the Visitors’ Centre at the Lafacadio Hearn Japanese Gardens in County Waterford. IJS also very kindly provided an introduction to Jean Pasley, award-winning writer/director and author of Black Dragonfly (2021), and we are so grateful that she has written the following about our publication.

＊＊＊

My first thought on reading Structures of Kyoto (Writers in Kyoto Anthology 4) was that I must go back to Kyoto. I have visited the city many times, lived there for months on end, and this book reminded me of what a special place it is and how much I miss it. It also alerted me to how much I missed while I was there. In this anthology, writers share their insights, knowledge and experiences of life in Kyoto, from the sublime tea ceremony to the other extreme: a school trophy made out of a rubber duck taped to a plastic plinth. There is something here for everyone.

The wonderful title of Mark Hovane’s essay, Rocks, Gravel and a bit of Moss, gives a sense of playfulness that belies the erudite content of this excellent essay and indeed of the entire anthology. Did you know that Ryoanji is the second most photographed garden in the world? No? Neither did I. I expect there is much I don’t know about Zen gardens. Hovane writes, “Knowing historically that these spaces are, on one level, 3D representations of 2D Chinese ink paintings is a good place to start” your study of these enigmatic spaces.

Reggie Pawle recalls a monk telling him that “Zen practice is like tying yourself up with a rope and then, in that condition, finding your freedom.” It seems that the harder you try to understand Zen the more elusive it becomes. Pawle says you learn “by doing rather than by analytically figuring things out.” His essay offers an amusing glimpse into the bewildering concept of Zen.

It is interesting how you can live somewhere and remain oblivious to the significance of what you are seeing all around you. How many times have I walked past five-tiered tower-like structureswithout realising the profound importance of them? These are gorinto and they are “primarily associated with memorialising the dead.” In Jann Williams’ intriguing and informative essay, Beyond Zen – Kyoto’s Gorinto Connections, I learned that the five geometric shapes stacked on top of one another that form the structure of gorinto are the cube, sphere, triangle, semi-circle and jewel. The five shapes represent the elements of the universe: earth, water, fire, wind and space and they embody the interconnectedness of all creation. The next time I see gorinto, I will pay more attention.

Catherine Pawasarat writes about how she spent untold hours at the annual Gion Festival before she started delving into the understated rituals taking place. She asks the question: “How can we humans long so deeply for significance in our lives and be blind to it at the same time?” Pawasarat explains the gruesome origins of this spectacular thousand-year-old festival during which the main deities, the god of storms and the goddess of rice, are welcomed every year to purify the city and its inhabitants.

This book contains many little gems and nuggets of wisdom. Did you know that monks used to use green tea to help them stay awake during long periods of meditation, or that the sound of an iron kettle boiling on the charcoal brazier in the teahouse creates a whispering sound known as matsukaze, wind in the pines? Apparently, “a ladleful of cold water poured into the kettle causes this sound to cease and creates a moment of utter silence and peace.” This, Rebecca Otowa tells us in Structures of Tea, is “one of the many wordless moments in tea ceremony that have the power to lift one out of ordinary sensation.”

There is another side to life in Kyoto. In Ina Sanjana’s heartfelt piece, Sunrise over the Kamogawa, we feel the loneliness of a homeless man, who “would like to hear someone say his name. Even in contempt.” And in Karen Lee Tawarayama’s science fiction set in 2050, The Life Dispensary, the summer heat has become unbearable not just for humans but for other bewildered creatures who are forced to take refuge in ponds, springs and rivers. This sad story highlights the climate crisis and a possible future intensifying of the sweltering heat that Kyoto already suffers during the summer months.

The unique landscape in and around Kyoto is depicted beautifully. Travel with Edward J. Taylor on a winter’s day to the village of Ohara where he hopes to walk “through fields of snow, the white purifying valley, called the Pure Land.” Stay with him through an area of “small forest between two massive beds of moss from which small jizo statues sprout like mushrooms.” Or enjoy John Einarsen’s elegant piece about the Dragon Gate of the World. “It stands alone atop wide stone steps, its three doorways always open to a forest, and beyond, mountains, keeping nothing in nor anything out.” The forest is “wild and free and vast beyond imagining.”

Vast beyond imagining, as is Kyoto, a city where the secular world and the spiritual world stand side by side. During Obon, the annual Festival of the Dead, the souls of the ancestors return to visit their families. At the end of the three-day festival huge bonfires are lit on the surrounding mountains to guide the spirits back to the heavens. The fires can be seen all over the city.  In Lisa Wilcut’s beautiful poem, Okuribi, two recently bereaved people stand on their hotel roof and toast a departing spirit while gazing at the fires burning in the distance; “the spirits almost palpable in the haze that hovers over the city.”

Structures of Kyoto Anthology 4 is an eclectic mix of things personal, poetic, aesthetic, magical, modern and ancient, gathered together in an informative, thought-provoking collection. Enhanced with photographs and illustrations, this is a delightful book to dip in and out of. It will amuse, inform and move you, whether you live in Kyoto, are simply passing through, or are dreaming about this ancient city from the other side of the world.

Award-winning writer/director Jean Pasley lived in Japan for many years. Her debut novel Black Dragonfly was published in 2021.  Set in late nineteenth century Japan, it is a historical novel based on the remarkable experiences of the Irish writer, Lafcadio Hearn.

The original post on the Ireland Japan Association website can be found here. A review of Pasley’s novel Black Dragonfly by WiK member Jann Williams can be found here. For more information about Structures of Kyoto, please see this link.

Books set in Kyoto

Serendipity and ‘A Kyoto Romance’

January 4, 2022

By Liane Grunberg Wakabayashi

Paintings by Teruhide Kato, photos by Liiane Wakabayashi

From New York City, the ink barely dry on a master’s degree in arts administration, I’d come to Tokyo to try my luck as an arts writer. My self-assigned beat became the top floor art galleries of Tokyo department stores, purveyors of some of the finest nihonga paintings in the nation. Nihonga, which are classical Japanese paintings created with a lush palette and nature-inspired motifs, depict temples, sprawling castles, tea houses, and just the right proportion of matsu pine trees or kimono-clad beauties to hold a scene together. 

My friendship with artist Teruhide Kato began in a corner of a pin-hole lit art gallery in Wako department store in Tokyo, where the artist was determined to redefine traditional Nihonga with a fresh contemporary look. Not a single pine tree could be found in his paintings. He went for microscopically thin lines worked with ultra-fine brushes. His striking paintings in black and white could easily be mistaken for woodblock prints. 

A Wako department store curator stepped out from a discretely placed door in the gallery wall. He ushered me into a small reception room, where Teruhide Kato sat facing me in a double-breasted dark blazer and gray pants. As we got to know each other over rounds of green tea, Kato Sensei moved me with his readiness to speak from his heart about the soul connection he felt with Kyoto, even though his family members were considered relative newcomers who traced back their Kyoto history “only” five generations. 

Kato Sensei had become famous for his hand-painted kimono, worn by elite Gion district maiko-san. An enka singer sent Kato Sensei into early retirement when she sang her heart out in a kimono confection on NHK’s New Year’s Eve program, Kohaku Utagasen. At the age of 52, with a deluge of requests for replicas of that kimono, Kato Sensei fulfilled the orders. Then he retired to devote himself to painting.  This was a dream that he had kept alive since entering Kyoto College of Art decades earlier. 

I mailed Kato Sensei a copy of The Japan Times Weekly article.  With the interview published, I thought I was ready to move on in my search for the next rising star in the contemporary Japanese art world. But Heaven Above had other plans. In April, a few months after the interview, my mother had flown from New York to visit me. We traveled to Kyoto, aiming our cameras at the pink blossoms saturating the skies over the temples. We followed the tourist route to the Kyoto Handicraft Center so my mother could pick up a few souvenirs. Standing by the door was the director of the Handicraft Center, and it was none other than Teruhide Kato. How extraordinary to have run into him. He asked me to wait, returning moments later with a letter of invitation he had received from the San Jose Museum of Art in Palo Alto. The letter was an offer to hold an exhibition there. 

A lightbulb went on in my head. It sounds cartoony to say this, but at that moment, Kato Sensei’s dream of exhibiting in the United States and my eagerness to introduce him to a sliver of the New York art world merged, overriding the fact that I had never actually organized an art exhibition anywhere before. Over the next few weeks, I let passion rule over doubts, got in touch with my alma mater, Columbia University, and somehow arranged for Kato Sensei to exhibit his paintings in the East Asian Institute’s faculty lounge, where the academic giants of Japanese literature and culture sat to drink their green tea—including the esteemed literary translator Donald Keene. 

In preparation for this exhibition, and another one downtown at the Cast Iron Gallery in Soho, Kato Sensei and I would collaborate. Over the next two years, we worked on producing a book to introduce the four seasons of Kyoto through his paintings. Kato Sensei loaned me those very same paintings that had hung in Wako department store just months earlier. It was a remarkable show of trust on his side. This is how Teruhide Kato’s vision of Kyoto came to decorate the earthy stucco walls and tokonoma of my Taisho-era bungalow in Tokyo, and how I ate, drank, and breathed in Kato’s paintings while nature filtered in through the sliding glass doors that ran the full length of the bungalow. 

We had hoped to have the book ready for the New York exhibitions. But when the time came in 1992, luckily we didn’t. Donald Keene’s office was down the hall from Kato’s exhibition at Columbia’s East Asian Institute, making it virtually impossible for the revered professor not to see the exhibition. Kato Sensei struck up a conversation with Donald Keene that led to a most unexpected turn of events. Professor Keene generously offered to write the Forward to Kyoto Romance. 

After we visited New York together to hold these two exhibitions, Kato Sensei and I parted on separate flights to resume our very different lives, his in Kyoto and mine in Tokyo. It seemed that our destiny was to exhibit together and we had fulfilled our mission. 

But I suppose intuition knew something else was in store for us. Literally, in a store. About a year later, a Fernand Leger exhibition was being held in Tokyo and I was curious to see what the great French modern painter’s art would look like on the top floor of Mitsukoshi department store. I assumed that an artist of Leger’s stature would be shown in the flagship Nihonbashi branch of Mitsukoshi. But I was mistaken. Leger was being exhibited at the much blander Shinjuku branch of Mitsukoshi. When the Nihonbashi store elevator doors opened, my mouth dropped open. I had stumbled upon an opening night party for an exhibition of Teruhide Kato’s paintings from Kyoto Romance. The publisher and Kato Sensei had created a Japanese version of Kyoto Romance without telling me. The artist offered a sheepish look to his uninvited guest and his co-author. The publisher’s smile was—how shall I put it—reptilian. 

I’m not sure why art galleries became the stage where Kato Sensei acted out our gallery karma: a chance interview in a Ginza gallery, authoring a book together, traveling to Kyoto for another serendipitous gallery meeting. After an adventure in New York, Mitsukoshi department store set the stage for a pivotal life lesson in trust, betrayal, and the long road to forgiveness.

The years rolled by and I got busy having children and raising them. I lost touch with Kato Sensei and his underhanded publisher. I unwittingly become a painter myself, took what I’d learned about organizing Kato Sensei’s exhibitions, and applied it to organizing my own. Eventually, I published a deck of cards called The Genesis Way and developed an intuitive system of drawing and painting known as Genesis Art. It was time to mend fences. I worked up the courage to call Kato Sensei and arrange to take the shinkansen down to Kyoto to show him my art. 

It was as if the past was so far behind us that what remained were only the good and sweet memories of our collaboration. He expressed it. I felt it too. Kato Sensei paid me a compliment that I return to my students every chance that I get—that the mark of a true artist is to reach a place of comfort in expressing how you see the world in your own way. Kato Sensei told me that I had, but in Kyoto language, a far more elegant equivalent of “you nailed it.” Something to do with fuzei—catching the atmosphere of a place and a situation.  

That day trip to Kyoto in 2015 would be the last I saw of Kato Sensei. He died from cancer not long after. The paintings from Kyoto Romance continue to be sold in Kyoto galleries and high-end gift shops as limited prints.  That’s good, but it’s not enough. I have a nagging feeling that there is still much more to do to make sure that Kato Sensei’s work is not forgotten. His wife, Keiko, holds in her possession both the original artwork and the copyright to release his paintings. Kyoto Romance remains out of print, unavailable on Amazon except on rare occasions when it’s offered at exorbitant prices as a collectible. It’s my deepest wish that a publisher with integrity will be found to bring Teruhide Kato back out of obscurity so that he can be loved and enjoyed by generations to come.

This is the first snowfall of the year. One wonders
what she is buying at the shop on Sannenzaka,
the slope to Kiyomizu Tenple

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

Liane Grunberg Wakabayashi is a journalist and artist based in Jerusalem. In 2021 she published a memoir, The Wagamama Bride: A Jewish Family Made in Japan, in which she describes how she stumbled upon her intuitive approach to drawing and painting. For more information: see http:www.goshenbooks.com and http://www.genesiscards.com.

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About Writers in Kyoto

Writers in Kyoto (WiK) is a group of English-language authors working or living in the city, or admiring it from afar. 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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