Hello fellow WiK members, and a very happy, hot and humid holiday season to you all. I’m not sure about your good selves, but at this time of the year, in Kyoto especially, I find it hard to generate enough energy or even enthusiasm for anything, including lengthy pieces of writing. It is at this time that I often turn to the short, short story, usually in an attempt to grow ideas toward kickstarting a broader project. With this in mind, I was hoping that you might be interested in joining me in a simple collaborative endeavor, mainly for fun, but also with an eye to completing a piece. Attached here, you will find the first (roughly) 1,000 words of a short story I have started. What I would like you to do, is provide me with a short synopsis (up to 100 words) of how you would see the second part developing. I already have three possible continuances in mind, but I am very interested to see how others might think. Of course, you can suggest both ideas and extra characters, and any other details that take your fancy.
OK. I’d like to set a deadline of August 31st for submissions, and you can contact me directly with your input on my email address: readers4readers@gmail.com
Look forward to hearing from you. Kevin
Here Comes Kenji
Two-thirds into
his first beer of the night, James raised his head from the reading of his
newspaper to gaze absently around the barely populated pub. Purposefully avoiding eye contact with any of
the other early evening patrons, his attention settled on the large flat screen
TV high on the wall to the right of the bar area, currently showing a baseball
game between the Hanshin Tigers and Yomiuri Giants. James had no interest in baseball. Didn’t understand the game, its rules, or why
it was so popular. Judging by the way
the other half dozen or so local punters littering this downtown joint were
behaving, nor did they. Nearly all were
either staring into space, staring at their drinks, or staring, eyes closed,
into their own souls.
All save one.
Perched on a
bar stool at the far end of the counter, and eyeing him intently through a soft
drifting of cigarette smoke and dust motes, was a princess. James straightened up in his chair and
lifting his beer glass slowly to his lips, returned her look with a steady one
of his own.
This was
interesting.
Narrowing his
eyes, the better to bring her face into focus, he struggled for signs of
recognition. She was certainly
beautiful, undoubtedly self-assured, and making her interest in him blatantly
obvious. But he did not know her. If they had met before, he most definitely
would have remembered it.
Next move?
It was
hers. Sliding off the bar stool with a
barely a sound, and plucking her wine glass up off the counter by its stem, she
glided across the five meters or so distance between them like a swan on
ice. James now followed her progress
with a little uncertainty. What was
happening here? Then she was there. Standing directly in front of him, looking
down with an amused smile on her perfectly shaped, gloss red lips. She
murmured,
“Americajin?”
“No, English”,
James replied cautiously, “You?”
“Very
Japanese”, she responded with a laugh, inclining her head to one side and
casually sweeping strands of her immaculately bobbed hair behind one ear. James was as close to speechless he had ever
been, but managed to gather himself enough to extend an invitation,
“Would you like
to join me?”
With a small
nod of acceptance, and another effortlessly seductive smile, she lowered
herself into the chair opposite his, taking a long sip from her glass before
slowly placing it on the table. James
took a quick look around the bar to see if anyone else was bearing witness to
this, but nothing had really changed. No one seemed to be showing any interest
in how this little scene was playing out, except for perhaps the bartender,
who, despite fiddling with a beer tap, was actually casting furtive glances in
their direction. James knew this dude
from the few times he had visited this pub before after first arriving in Kyoto
a couple of months earlier. He was a
pretty cool young Japanese guy with decent English, and as they were close to
the same age, they’d chatted a bit about this and that while James was being
served. James raised his eyebrows a
couple of time to register the universal code for surprise, but the bartender’s
expression came back a little flat, in fact almost hostile. Strange.
Still, James
had something else to occupy his mind with right now, and she was in a very
friendly mood. The conversation went
back and forth easily, and very soon James began to relax into it. She told him her name, Reina, and of her love
for speaking English and travel. He
explained why he had come to Japan, and a little of his previous life in the
UK. She talked of her hometown in Osaka,
and how she had moved to Kyoto for work.
He brought up the difficulty he was having nailing down decent
employment, but was confident something great would turn up in time. Pretty soon, and much to James’s surprise,
they found themselves exchanging phone numbers and LINE details and were even
chatting over the idea of leaving and moving on to another more interesting
hostelry. All in all, they appeared to be getting along just swimmingly …
until.
James had
noticed the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under the short sleeve of the
blouse she was wearing, and intrigued by something he had not seen on any of
the young Japanese women he encountered thus far, decided to casually comment
on it,
“That’s an
interesting bit of artwork on your arm, Reina, can I see the rest of it?”
Getting
surprisingly flustered and even a little panicked, she tugged on the shirt
sleeve in an attempt to hide it, and then rather abruptly stood up and
muttering something in Japanese, made a short apologetic gesture and excused
herself, claiming an urgent need to visit the toilet. James sat back a little astonished by this
sudden change in mood and events, and shaking his head, picked up their glasses
and headed to the bar. Maybe a fresh
round of drinks would get things back on track. Obviously, he had struck a
nerve, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the big issue was.
Arriving at the
counter, he gave a little wave to catch the eye of the young bartender, who was
nearly finished serving another customer, and got a curt ‘in a minute’ nod in
return. While waiting for his turn, he swiveled from side to side to check if
Reina was returning from the toilet, and to clock the rest of the
clientele. This time, far from ignoring
his presence, more than several sets of eyes were firmly fixed on him, and one
or two faces even bore expressions of intense hatred. What the ….?
James did not like the feel of this one bit. At that moment, the bartender rocked up, and
before James could get a word out, spoke low and hard,
“I think you
need to leave, man”
James was
shocked,
“What’re you
talking about, mate. I haven’t done anything”
The bartender
shook his head,
“That girl
you’re with. She’s not yours, she’s not
for you”
James let out a
nervous laugh,
“I’m not with
her, mate. We’ve only just met. What’s the big problem?”
The bartender
leant forward and hissed,
“Listen! I’m trying to do you a favor. Everyone in
here knows her, and they know her friends.
I think a call has already been made.”
And now in a
raised voice.
“Seriously, you
just need to go!!”
At that moment,
two things happened simultaneously.
Reina, who had now reappeared, stood shaking with both hands clamped to
her mouth, and the door to the bar flew open, ricocheting off the faux brick
wall with a resounding bang and a shattering of glass. Coming right through it was a very large,
very hard looking Japanese guy with a less than genial look about him.
The bartender
stepped back and muttered under his breath,
“Majikayo,
Kenji daze” – “Oh shit, here comes Kenji”.
Although Kanazawa is recognized by UNESCO as a “City of Crafts and Traditional Arts,” it has also produced many great writers over the years, and, adding to this its impressive literary halls, museums, memorials, statues, celebrations, and even occasional author-themed foods, could well be considered a “City of Literature,” too. Izumi Kyoka is Kanazawa’s most celebrated writer – at least within Japan.
Izumi Kyoka 1873 – 1939
Kyoka was born in Kanazawa in 1873, only twenty years after Japan was forced to open to the West after 250 years of seclusion. As one might imagine, it was a time of great change throughout the country. Kyoka lived in Kanazawa until he was seventeen years old, and though he was forced to come back on a few occasions, his home thereafter became Tokyo – Japan’s literary center in his day and now – and for several years Zushi, on the Kanagawa coast, where he went with his wife, Ito Suzu, a former Kagurazaka geisha, to recover his health. Despite the short time he lived in Kanazawa, as well as the negative feelings he held toward the city, he set a number of his works there.
I became interested in Kyoka’s work due to a somewhat unique situation: he’s from the Japanese city where I moved to several years ago and expect to live the rest of my life. And although I read his stories before moving here, I was drawn to them more deeply after becoming a resident of Kanazawa.
It’s also of
personal interest that some of his works are set in areas I might pass through every
day. Visiting Renshoji, the temple on Mt. Utatsu where Kyoka set Rukinsho (“The
Heartvine,” 1937), and the old castle moat where two characters from this story
met while intending to drown themselves (as Kyoka and a local woman did in real
life), is still possible today, though both places have changed in the years
since he wrote it. Another of his Kanazawa stories is Kechou (“A Bird of
a Different Feather,” 1897). This takes place near the Tenjin Bridge along the
Asano River and on Mt. Utatsu, but at a time when those areas were populated by
the “polluted” and disenfranchised: butchers, leatherworkers, prostitutes, grave
diggers, corpse handlers, and other social outcastes. Because various temples,
graveyards, winding streets, and even some houses still exist in those areas
from that time, one can imagine what the river and mountain might have looked like
when Kechou took place. Other Kyoka stories and novels also have Kanazawa as
their settings, and whenever I come across them I feel my roots to the city
grow deeper.
To me, the power and
mystery of Kyoka’s stories are undeniable. While I admit having had only
limited success reading his work in Japanese, Charles Shiro Inouye’s two
collections of translated Kyoka stories are excellent, and what they transmit
to me in my reading of them is of the same quality and effect as my favorite
Japanese literature (also in translation): Kawabata’s Snow Country and Sound
of the Mountain; Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters; Shiga’s A Dark
Night’s Passing; Soseki’s Grass on the Wayside and Kokoro;
Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask and The Temple of the Golden
Pavilion; Abe’s The Woman in the Dunes; Nakagami’s The Cape and
Other Stories from the Japanese Ghetto; Ibuse’s Black Rain; Minakami’s
Temple of Wild Geese and Bamboo Dolls of Echizen – among others. (Many
of these authors knew Kyoka and revered him as a writer.) What differentiates
Kyoka from all of these writers, his contemporaries as well as those who came
after him, are both his pure Japanese-ness as a storyteller, which is to say
the lack of influence in his writing from outside of Japan, particularly when
western realism was in vogue, and also his writing style, which enabled him to develop
an aesthetic that is arguably more surreal, more sensual, and more
linguistically sophisticated than any other Japanese writer. His writing is
often strange in the way that dreams are strange, yet his narratives are
controlled, often intricately plotted, and expertly lead his readers through what
typically are shadowy, otherworldly, deeply nostalgic emotional landscapes.
The characters and
plot of my own novel, Kanazawa, present deliberate instances of
intertextuality, where certain scenes I’ve written interact with certain scenes
in Kyoka’s stories (and with his own life). Readers who have read Kyoka may
recognize these instances, or at least trace some aspects of their lineage, in
my novel. I could never hope to achieve what Kyoka did in his stories, stylistically
or literarily; I’ve merely tried to weave something interesting together and add
a layer to the ways my novel can be read, understood, and enjoyed. But one can
still read Kanazawa without first reading Kyoka, I suppose one can also,
if one wishes to, experience the same sense of recognition in reverse – by
reading my novel first and then seeking out Kyoka’s works.
If readers enjoy
my novel, or even only parts of it, and are curious to discover an important
influence on its creation (and on my own life in Kanazawa), I want to point
them to the following works.
Charles Shiro Inouye’s three publications on Kyoka are masterful. Two are collections of translated stories – equal to more famous literary translations by Edward Seidensticker* and Ivan Morris, but for some reason more quietly trumpeted than theirs – and one a critical biography. The former are In Light of Shadows (University of Hawaii Press, 2004) and Japanese Gothic Tales (University of Hawaii Press, 1996), the latter The Similitude of Blossoms (Harvard University Press, 1998).
Donald Keene’s
chapter on Izumi Kyoka in Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature of the
Modern Era (Columbia University Press, 1998) has long served as an
excellent addition to what is available in English on Kyoka and his writing.
There is general agreement that Keene’s work has been of particular importance
to the revival of interest in Kyoka’s writing.
Cody Poulton’s Spirits
of Another Sort is another excellent source of translation (plays, mostly,
of which Kyoka wrote more than five dozen), and of critical and biographical
material.
The more recent A
Bird of a Different Feather, translated by Peter Bernard, beautifully
illustrated by Nakagawa Gaku, and appended with several short but interesting
essays by Japanese Kyoka scholars, is also worth readers’ time.
While other short publications
deal with the creative products of what Akutagawa Ryunosuke referred to as
“Kyoka’s World,” these are the ones I’ve read and come back to often with
greatest pleasure and interest.
As Emmitt’s mother-in-law suggests in Kanazawa, if foreign readership of Kyoka’s work spreads, perhaps it will “help preserve something that’s in danger of disappearing.” I share her belief, and also hope that it might lead to Kyoka’s work taking a more prominent place in Japan’s highly regarded literary canon.
[*Seidensticker translated Kyoka’s “A Tale of Three Who Were Blind” (1956) which appeared in Modern Japanese Literature (Grove Press, 1994), ed. Donald Keene.]
Most Kyoto residents will be
familiar with The Lady and the Monk, published in 1991, in which a
foreigner in search of Zen finds unexpected love. Many may have finished the
book wondering what happened to the couple. Reader, they married. Now, nearly
thirty years later, we are presented with a follow-up. It’s not a sequel the
author insists, but a counterpart – an autumn love story to balance the
springtime mood of the earlier work. Think Linklater’s Sunrise Trilogy in lush
prose.
The title is suggestive of the book’s theme, which has to do with aging and the relentless march of time. Indeed, autumn here is championed as Japan’s quintessential season. ‘Cherry blossoms, pretty and frothy as schoolgirls’ giggles, are the face the country likes to present to the world… but it’s the reddening of the maple leaves under a blaze of ceramic-blue skies that is the place’s secret heart.’ In traditional poetry the compelling beauty of autumn light is underpinned by awareness of the shortening days, suggestive of the Japanese aesthetics of sabi (forlornness) and the tradition of mono no aware (the pathos of beauty’s transience`).
Death, dying and dementia haunt
the pages of the book, casting an autumn light on the proceedings as Iyer tells
of family matters and aging table-tennis partners. An elderly mother in
California, a mother-in-law in her dotage, a step-daughter involved with the
wrong type of man. Then there’s the curious case of the estranged
brother-in-law, whose Jungian studies go hand-in-hand with a refusal to engage
with his family. It’s a surprisingly revealing book for an author who likes to
treat Japan as a form of private retreat in contrast to his overseas
assignments and public engagements. It means that he keeps a low profile while
in Nara, where he focusses on his writing (unfortunately for WiK as we have
been unable to book him as a speaker). Since most of the book is centred around
his home in Nara, with occasional excursions to Kyoto, this second autobiographical
work surely marks him out as Kansai’s prime creative foreign writer.
The first time I came across Pico
Iyer was while reading a review of Remains of the Day (another autumnal
work). The writer made the astonishing claim that the story offered excellent
insight into the Japanese character, and such was my surprise I checked to see
who the author was, wondering whether the name was some kind of joke. Since
then I have followed his career with interest, and in the intervening years he
has won a massive fan base around the globe (his Ted talks have been seen by
over three million people). It’s worth speculating as to what underlies his
appeal, apart from the self-evident honesty and sensitivity. The reflective
asides can catch one unawares but they invariably stimulate thought, and there
is much to be admired in the poetic, sometimes cryptic, style of language: ‘If
autumn is a religion, it’s something you recite – or see with your eyes closed
– more than put into words.’
Above all, Iyer is a keen
observer, which may be why Japan suits him so well, for he is an outsider with
no mastery of the language. In his observations he scratches away at the
surface of life, probing for the essence of what it means to be human. ‘How to
hold on to the things we love even though we know that we and they are dying.
How to see the world as it is, yet find light within that truth.’ And here we
see the subtle double meaning of the book’s title. Yes, autumn induces
melancholy, but within that one must strive for positivity, just as in the face
of aging the elderly folk in his table tennis club strive to improve their
shots. Perhaps the Japanese with their stoicism have something to teach in this
regard, for gambatte (do your best) is the national mantra and sacrificing
self for the good of the whole leads to the well-being of the community. The
ping-pong club provide an example.
There is not much action, but
plenty of drama in the book. ‘Now I see it’s in the spaces where nothing is
happening that one has to make a life,’ the author reflects. The sentence is
suggestive of the Japanese aesthetic of ma (space), by which the
emptiness within the bowl is what matters to the tea drinker just as the
unpainted parts matters to the charcoal ink artist. How do we imbue everyday
banality with significance, without letting life slip us by? Love and
compassion are Iyer’s unspoken answers, and it is these qualities that he
admires in spiritual teachers such as the Dalai Lama and the Tofuku-ji Zen
master, even though their answers to life’s problems may seem commonplace. ’All
this world is but a dream, be thou the joyful dreamer,’ sang The Incredible
String Band in the 1960s, and there is something of that spirit in Iyer’s
musings on his ‘autumn light’. Perhaps it represents acceptance on his part,
and the book concludes with him sitting contentedly on his small balcony in
Nara counting his blessings. A happy end, it seems…
‘But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’
While Writers in Kyoto is dedicated to local writers publishing in
English, the following may be interesting to anybody who writes in
Japanese:
The First Kyoto Literature Award invites writers from all over the world to submit a complete, full-length novel in Japanese on the theme of “Kyoto”.
There
are three categories, “General”, “Students”, and “Overseas” with
slightly different rules as to length etc. The winner of the “General”
category will receive a large cash prize and the winning novel will be
published. So, if you are interested in entering, polish up that
Japanese novel of yours and submit it. The deadline is September 30th,
2019.
Stone gardens are an art form in themselves, different from other garden types and with distinctive features. As Stephen Mansfield shows in the early chapters of his book, the stone garden drew on diverse origins – animist use of sacred rocks and space; Chinese idealisations of nature; the Japanese preference for essentialism and representation; Daoist notions of the flow of energy; and bonseki, the setting of stones on trays.
Stones at Tenryu-ji. Photo courtesy of daderot on wikimedia commons.
The first mention of dry landscape
came in the 11th century in Sakuteiki, and a significant breakthrough was made
by Muso Soseki, founder of Tenryu-ji, who developed the idea of the
contemplative garden meant for entering visually rather than physically. Though
not mentioned by Mansfield, the creation by Soseki of the dry garden at Saiho-ji,
famous for its moss, offers an early example of a rock garden with mountain
river scenery and a large flat stone on which the designer sat in contemplation
of the scene below.
In terms of aesthetics, Mansfield
runs through the usual suspects – mujo (impermanence), yugen
(elegant profundity), mitate (creative reuse), wabi-sabi (rustic
simplicity) and yohaku no bi (literally, the beauty of extra white, i.e.
empty space). The latter is a key concept, though perhaps the least known
about.
The concept of a specifically ‘Zen
garden’ is said by Mansfield to have originated in the West with Lorraine
Kuck’s 1935 book, One Hundred Kyoto Gardens. Interestingly, it came out
at around the time of the ‘discovery’ of Ryoan-ji as a masterpiece. Like the
tea ceremony, also heavily influenced by
Zen, the stone garden has
developed an independent status and now extends far beyond Zen temples. In the
final section of the book, the author lists 15 outstanding examples of the art
form, only 6 of which are within the domain of Kyoto’s Rinzai Zen. One of them
indeed is in the Canadian Embassy!
Saiho-ji Gardens. Photo courtesy of Saigen Jiro on wikimedia commons.
Mansfield has evidently given much
thought to the subject, and he leaves the reader with much to ponder. ‘One of
the functions of the gardens is to bring us into alignment with nature, the
universe, our inner selves,’ he writes. There are numerous tips for helping us
see more clearly the art involved, and for those of us in Kyoto there is the
recommendation to get away from the crowds and go see Shogen-ji in Otsu. On the
other hand, considerable space is given to the Shigemori Mirei creations at
Matsuo Taisha shrine, which for anyone familiar with his work at Tofuku-ji must
surely be a disappointment.
The book provides much food for
thought, and and I found myself sufficiently stimulated to want to ask further
questions. What is involved in the hira-niwa device? How did the
aesthetic of yohaku no bi develop and what does it involve? Why no
discussion of the Mt Horai garden with its crane and turtle features? Why no
mention of the third Shigemori garden at Matsuo Taisha or the West Garden at
Tofuku-ji? What underlies the Daoist insistence on odd numbers? What are the
best examples of stone gardens outside Japan?
How fortunate then that there will be a chance to put such questions directly to the author himself when he comes for a lunch talk with WiK on Sept 28th (members have priority). Stephen Mansfield is a prolific author and an influential photo-journalist whose work has appeared in some 60 different publications and who regularly reviews for the Japan Times. He’s recognised as one of the best contemporary writers on Japanese culture and apart from gardens he has written books on Tokyo and the Insight Guide to Japan. We’re very pleased therefore that he has agreed to take time out from his writing activities to come and talk to WiK.
Forsaking the farce of form and face Artists forced to raze the dominant paradigm Seizing the sense of silence and space
The painter replicates without a trace Fleeing frigid hue and spectral clime Forsaking the farce of form and face
The poet shuns a language of sonorous lace Refuses circumscription to rhythm and rhyme Seizing the sense of silence and space
Dancers undulate within the sky’s embrace Respond to a resonating pantomime Forsaking the farce of form and face
Musicians project a gait of staggering pace Spurn the tyranny of tone and time Seizing the sense of silence and space
Genius celebrates a fall from bogus grace Abandons the sensual for a soul sublime Forsaking the farce of form and face Seizing the sense of silence and space
—Preston Keido Houser
More poetry on the Writers in Kyoto page by Preston Houser can be found here.
Dougal McLeish had been staring out of his office window for a full hour, the yellowing light of an early autumnal evening creeping slowly across the cluttered desktop in front of him. Hands folded in his lap, shoulders sagging forward, his demeanour bore all the hallmarks of the dejected. Yet, there was no sadness in him, nor desire to wallow in self-pity. No, he was just tired, extremely and unutterably tired. Things had been a little trying of late, but Dougal was not a worrier. On the contrary, he liked to think of himself as the eternal optimist, the one others came to when a little boost of confidence was needed, a quick cheering up. If Dougal McLeish was tired, then he was simply that. Tired. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, that’s what he was telling himself anyway. He looked down at the paper on his desk again, and sighed deeply.
It hadn’t always been this way. When Dougal had first arrived at the cornucopia of concrete that formed the campus of Takano Junior College in northern Kyoto prefecture to take up his position a little over eighteen months before, he had been brimming over with energy and unbridled enthusiasm. Every waking moment and a fair proportion of his free time too, had been given over to the preparation and deliverance of what he believed to be pretty decent courses of study. Why, had not Professor Koizumi himself, the Dean of his faculty, commented on it personally at a chance meeting by the water cooler one lunchtime? Yes, there had been some recognition of his endeavours by his superiors it seemed, but not perhaps by those whose opinion mattered the most to him – his students.
Dougal was twenty-four years old. A little over six feet three inches tall, sandy haired, of rake like build, and by his own admission, pretty much unexceptional in just about every way. He had lived in the tiny Scottish Borders town of his birth for twenty-three of those years and had only ventured out of the area on two previous occasions. Once on a three-day high school trip to the distant metropolis of London, and once to attend the funeral of a maiden aunt he had never laid eyes on, and never would, now they had lowered her into the ground. He had earned his degree in Theology from a small, but respectable college in a larger neighbouring town, which had enabled him to stay in the warm embrace of his loving and very close family. This also allowed him to indulge in his other great passion, which was singing in the choir of his local church, of which his father was the venerable pastor. Dougal, as often said by those who knew and loved him, was an excellent student, a loyal son, a good Christian, and perhaps just a tad unworldly. That he had come to be teaching English to teenage Japanese, in Japan of all places, had surprised a considerable number of people, not least Dougal himself. The way this had come about in actuality was, however, really quite unremarkable.
A little over two years previously, the small town of Takano some way north of Kyoto City in western Japan had somehow found itself twinned with Glenruttock home of the extended McLeish family, among others. The locating of a gigantic new micro-processor plant operated by the Japanese NIHONTECH Corporation might have been part of the equation, and small groups of Japanese businessmen had been spotted swinging with abandon on both of the local golf courses. In light of these developments, Daddy McLeish, being a man of considerable stature in the local community, had therefore taken it upon himself to host an opposite number from Takano, when a delegation from that fine town had arrived on a goodwill visit. It was his civic and Christian duty, after all. Professor Koizumi had been their honoured guest, and had stayed in their humble abode for two weeks of a glorious Glenruttock summer. During this time, aside from revelling in the delights of the Scottish countryside, he had had ample time to size up the young Dougal McLeish.
It had appeared to him straight away that here was a young fellow who exhibited all the wonderful qualities he sought to bestow on his own youthful charges. Unfortunately, with each passing year, and new intake of students, those qualities seemed to be in ever decreasing supply. Low morality, appalling personal appearance, a genuine disregard for authority and seniority, and a general lack of common sense, the list, to Koizumi sensei at least, seemed to characterize the modern generation and was extremely depressing to an old schooler like himself. Well, if that was to be the new face of Japanese youth, then Koizumi had felt a need, nay, a compulsion to give it a serious makeover. And he was sure that fine, upstanding young gentlemen like Dougal McLeish would be his shock troops in the battles ahead. He had wasted no time in convincing Daddy McLeish of this, who had in turn persuaded Dougal of his duty as both a Christian and a Glenruttockian. After constant reassurances from the Japanese scholar that his complete lack of teaching experience would prove no barrier to a successful execution of his duties, Dougal was dispatched to the Land of the Rising Sun for the start of the next academic year.
Things had not really gone to plan since then, that much was true, but Dougal was nothing if not determined. He had received less support than he had hoped for from Professor Koizumi, who had seemed so enthusiastic on those inspirational nights filled with earnest conversation back in his father’s study. Over what, in retrospect, seemed a frighteningly large quantity of Daddy McLeish’s 20-year old single malt, he had laid down his vision of a new Takano Junior College, and Dougal’s part in it. However, since his arrival, other matters had seemed to take up an ever-increasing portion of his sponsor’s time, and Dougal had been left to spearhead a rather lonely campaign.
He felt alone, and much too young to be so. The students had turned out to be, on the whole, quite likeable, but he felt the distance between them and himself was growing immeasurably. They had nothing in common, even as young people. Their language, clothes, musical tastes and sense of fun were all dissimilar. But more than this, their attitude was different, and this was reflected mainly in their studies. They seemed to him to have more interest in pursuing non-academic interests than in the essential goal of acquiring knowledge. Dougal had attempted to understand it, attending school events and festivals, even consulting colleagues on the matter, many of whom had seemed at a loss to comprehend his concern, but things had slowly been building up to the point where he found himself today: close to defeat. The source of his malaise, at least in part, lay on the desk in front of him in the form of a single piece of paper.
There was nothing remarkable about it. A4 in size, white, with five words covering its surface. Two of the words were at the head of the sheet and spelled out a name: Tanaka Shu, the names reversed in the Japanese style, with the surname printed first. The other three words were entered about 4 centimetres south of these, written in pencil in the same drunken pre-schooler type scrawl as the former. These three words formed the legend: MONKEY WANT BANANA. Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and with an abrupt and fog clearing shake of the head, it was to this that he finally turned his attention. “Ah, Mr. Tanaka,” he murmured to himself. “Mr. Shu Tanaka”.
Photo by Francesco Ungaro on Unsplash
Though he taught an increasingly large number of students each semester, Dougal had no trouble conjuring up an image of the young man in question. Shu Tanaka was in his Thursday, Period Two, Second Year Writing class. The students in this class represented possibly the least motivated group of individuals in the entire college, ranging from the basically indifferent to the invisible. A turnout of over 50% for any one class could be considered a major attendance breakthrough. Shu Tanaka fell into the semi-visible group and stood out for one particular reason – he pretty much always sat alone. He was not a party to the incessant chattering that accompanied the best part of Dougal’s classes from the mid-classroom area, this being the domain of Emi Kimura and her make-up mirror, cell phone-wielding cohorts. Nor did he involve himself with the more boisterous activity displayed by some of the alpha males in the group. Shows of bravado, no doubt intended to secure the attentions of Emi and her style posse. Instead, hiding behind the fringe of a spectacular mop of frizzy, two-toned dyed hair, he would slump in his seat toward the back of the room busying himself with his cellphone. This, Dougal assumed, he had had to acquire by scraping together funds from an outrageously underpaid part-time job. Shu was not really then a problem student in a behavioural sense, he just seemed to lack, well, purpose.
This latest literary offering was probably the most pathetic attempt at descriptive writing that Dougal had received to date. But considering three-quarters of the class had failed to hand in anything at all by the deadline, he couldn’t really dismiss it out of hand. It would be impossible to grade, but it could be considered a foundation on which to build something a little more constructive – well, couldn’t it? MONKEY WANT BANANA.
The assignment had been,
to Dougal’s mind, a wonderful opportunity for the students to express
themselves. Selecting one photo from a
choice of three, depicting wild animals in their natural environment, the
students were to produce a paragraph of writing ‘through the animal’s eyes’. A stalking tiger, a soaring eagle, and the
close-up facial shot of a full-grown male chimpanzee, eyes burning with
intelligence and curiosity. How
liberating, he had thought, how tantalizing a chance to give freedom to the pen
and let your innermost feelings run wild by connecting with the wildest of the
wild themselves. One paragraph would
surely be far too limiting! How wrong he
had been.
He had received ten scraps of paper, all handwritten, and some barely legible. To find an adjective containing more than one syllable had been next to impossible. There simply had been no attempt at expression at all, unless the message behind each piece was a declaration of apathy. MONKEY WANT BANANA was minimal, fair enough, but displayed a factual simplicity that could not easily be ignored. Perhaps Shu Tanaka had really tried other routes then finally settled for the obvious. Yes, that may well be it, thought Dougal. He would have to have a little chat with him and get to the bottom of it. Suddenly animated, and curiously excited, he straightened in his chair and rubbed his hands together vigorously. He felt considerably better. That was it. Take control and approach them as individuals. Wonderful! The prospect of a protégé was appealing in the extreme.
The following Thursday morning, Shu Tanaka shuffled into Dougal’s classroom a little after ten past eleven. Shu knew he was an impressive twenty five minutes late and was quite surprised to see the nerdy, stringbean of a British teacher actually smile at him. Was he being sarcastic? He concluded not. He didn’t seem to have a sense of humour, this one. Shu had had a couple of foreign teachers before, and although their classes were equally mind-numbingly dull, they had at least raised the occasional chuckle from the pack. Avoiding any further eye contact with the teacher and moving at roughly the same speed as an octogenarian with a serious hemorrhoids problem, he covered the remaining distance to his favourite pew at the back of the room and flopped down onto the hard wooden seat. Without looking up, he opened the comic he had recovered from a waste bin moments before and proceeded to read.
Dougal had followed Shu’s progress to his seat and was now staring in that direction incredulously. Could this shambling fool really have been the focus of so much of his thinking over the last few days? Did he honestly believe this rude and dramatically unpunctual degenerate worthy of his individual attention. Suppressing an urge to stride down the classroom and demand an apology for the clear lack of manners, he turned instead and started to write furiously on the blackboard, all too aware of the sniggering and snatches of whispered conversation in a language with which he was still far too unfamiliar, coming from behind him. He had been humiliated in similar situations before, but this time he felt horribly let down – and mainly by himself. “Professionalism, Dougal” he muttered to himself, “Professionalism.”
“Thank you class. And if I could please have the remainder of the essays by next Thursday, that would be excellent,” Dougal said, dismissing the class a little over an hour later. The fact that the majority of the students had already bolted upon hearing the sound of the tones signalling the end of the second period was lost on the young teacher. He was more intent on intercepting the now faster moving Shu Tanaka as he also made a beeline for the door. “Shu, if I could just have a moment, please?” he managed to direct at the back of the retreating youth. Shu knew he was caught, and equally that there was no escape. He had been through the same scenario many times before, and knew the procedure. Turning slowly, head down, he hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and addressed his teacher, “Hai, sensei” he muttered. Dougal spoke softly, “Listen Shu, I know it’s pretty hard to make it to all your classes on time and all that, but, you know, a simple ‘sorry’ wouldn’t go amiss, from time to time now would it?” Shu looked up and delivered his most baleful and well-practiced apologetic look. “Sorry, sensei,” he managed in the special, whining, remorseful tone he reserved for his foreign teachers. Dougal responded, “Well, alright then, we’ll say no more about it this time.” Then just as Shu was about to execute a high-speed exit, “However, I would like to have a little word about your composition, if you could spare a minute or two. “Shu’s heart sank. Any chance of making an early run to the school cafeteria for an early lunch spot were well and truly out the window. The ensuing conversation was relatively brief.
Dougal: Well, how’s school life these days, Shu?
Shu: Very busy, so busy, Dougal sensei.
Dougal: Yes, I can remember my own college days, so much study and so little time (slight chuckle).
Shu: Yes, sensei, I work very, so hard.
Dougal: Good, good for you
Shu. Well, actually, as I said, I wanted
to talk to you about the paper you submitted two weeks ago, MONKEY WANT BANANA.
Shu: Oh! hai, yes, sensei.
Dougal: OK, well, yes, errm, well perhaps you might like to have another try at it. Not that it’s terribly bad or anything like that, but only it’s a little, how can I say, on the short side, if you see what I mean.
Shu: Sensei?
Dougal: Mmm, well the thing is Shu, four words is really only about the length of a title, isn’t it? I was hoping for, well, considerably more actually. I mean I understand what you were trying to express, that the monkey really wanted that banana, but perhaps that wasn’t all the monkey wanted to say. Perhaps the monkey wanted to say more, Shu?
Shu: You want monkey say more, sensei?
Dougal: Yes Shu, I think the monkey, if it could communicate, has more to say to you, and I think you can write down all that it has to offer. What do you think?
Shu: Yes, I think about monkey more again. Write about more monkey, sensei.
Dougal: That’s the spirit, Shu. Rewrite the piece and hand it in to me next Thursday, I shall look forward to reading it.
Shu: Hai, sensei. Thank you,
thank you very much, bye-bye.
Dougal: Thank you, Shu. Goodbye!
Dougal returned to his office in great spirits. He had finally made a breakthrough. Shu Tanaka had seemed to understand the
essence of what he was trying to convey and had accepted his advice without
question. He had apologized for his
earlier rudeness, hadn’t he? He was
prepared to try harder, wasn’t he? Of
course, he was, and he, Dougal McLeish, would not turn his back on him
now. Yes, now he thought about it, a lot
of the fellow’s behaviour could clearly be misinterpreted. The pathetic walk and looks could just as easily
be signs of a terrible life-long shyness.
The refusal to make eye contact with his teachers and other students,
signs of loneliness, of one unable to reach out to others easily. To Dougal McLeish, Shu Tanaka was a
loner. That was as evident as the
suffering of the good Lord Jesus himself.
But he could help him, and help him he most certainly would. Shu Tanaka would be assisted in reaching his
full potential, because that was what he, Dougal McLeish, had been brought to
Japan to do.
Professor Koizumi was right after
all. The reason why Dougal had seen so
little of him was obviously because the professor had wanted him to seek out
these challenges by himself. He was
beside himself now. He switched on his
computer and began to compose the first of his twice daily e-mails home to the
family. Today’s would be very special,
though. Today’s would tell them that he
had finally found a purpose to his life, that he now knew he was destined to
help others fulfill their dreams and potential.
He would ask them to include Shu Tanaka in their evening prayers.
Shu Tanaka went out that evening with a few of his cronies to a favorite
student hang out near the campus. He
recounted the incident with Dougal McLeish over more than a few beers and it
got some serious belly laughs, mostly due to Shu’s outrageous impression of the
young teacher. Most of those present
took classes with McLeish sensei, and while they agreed he wasn’t such a bad
guy or a hardass, he was, in general, pretty weird. Over the next week Shu divided his time
fairly equally between visits to pubs, mates’ houses and his long-suffering
girlfriend. One thing he didn’t do, or
even actually think about, was rewriting the paper for Dougal. At about ten-thirty on the following Thursday
morning, fifteen minutes before he was due to walk into the writing class, Shu
was sitting, sipping coffee, in a student only area of his faculty
building. He was nursing a stinking
hangover and couldn’t really decide on why he had made the decision to come to
school at all. It was only then that a
feeling of alarm slowly crept up on him.
Diving into his tatty, clear plastic folder he extracted the paper that
McLeish sensei had returned to him the week before. A little more creased, twice folded over, but
otherwise untouched. Shu put down his coffee,
picked out a pen with a bit of colour and began to write.
Dougal was a little disappointed to see Shu make yet another late entry
to the class, but very happy to see him none the less. He hadn’t seen his student around the campus
during the previous week, and had felt a little disconcerted at his feelings of
concern for the young man. Hey, he
wasn’t his father or anything, after all.
Still, he was here now, and … wasn’t that a smile and a nod from the
young fella! Well, well, well!
Shu crept into the room, hoping McLeish sensei would be facing the board
and not see yet another of his famous late entrances. He tossed a casual smirk at Emi Kimura who
blushed a little and smiled back. He’d
been out with Emi in the first year, and she’d been a rare old laugh, for a
while at least. Looking forward he saw
that his teacher was staring straight at him.
Dammit! He did the only thing he
could do-he gave the guy a nod and a smile.
What do you know, he smiled straight back. This one practically handed
you the chain to jerk so often it just wasn’t sport, he thought. Adopting his cool, but casual walk, Shu
proceeded to his usual seat, pulled out his fashion mag and got down to some
serious reading.
At the end of the ninety minutes Dougal could hardly contain
himself. While he was answering the same
questions he had answered during the lesson itself to one of the more
persistently dense students, he could see Shu Tanaka hovering on the periphery,
obviously nervous and anxiously glancing between the paper he was holding in
his hand and the door. Dougal could tell
he was finding it difficult to summon up the courage to come forward and hand
in the paper. He was probably so insecure
in his own ability that he had spent most of the past week going over what he
wanted to say this very morning. He
finished off answering the last of the questions and raising his chin beckoned
Shu Tanaka forward.
Shu was desperate to get out of that bloody classroom. He was hopping from foot to foot, looking at
his watch, looking at the door. That
idiot Junichi was asking his stupid questions again. Come on you stupid ….…. aarrg!! He had to get going if he was to have any
chance of getting one of the lunch specials, and he was bloody starving. Plus, when he handed in this paper he didn’t
really want to have another heart to heart with Mr. Wacko. Oh great!
He’s finished.
Shu rushed forward clutching the paper. He thrust it forward, forcing Dougal to take
it from him. Then after a split second
of indecisiveness when he was actually considering initiating a conversation
with the man, he shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heels and was off out
the door. The young Scot was taken
aback. He looked at the familiar piece
of paper in his hand, then slowly started to unfold it. Once opened out and presented in its full
glory, he took a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. Then raising his eyes slowly to the ceiling,
pressing the now wrinkled paper to his chest, softly and under his breath
murmured, “Yes Shu, I think you may be right – I really think you may very well
be right”. Spreading the paper out again
on his desktop he read aloud the new, and to his mind, much improved legend
“MONKEY WANT BANANA AND FRIEND!!”
When is Ryōan-ji not Ryōan-ji? At what point does representation become abstraction, or does one thing morph into something totally different? John Cage loved stones, and collected them from all over the world. He also loved Ryōan-ji from the moment he saw it during his first trip to Japan in 1962. In 1983 Cage began producing a series of drawings entitled, Where R = Ryoanji, based on the sketched outlines of 15 small stones from his collection. Chance operations using the I Ching determined each choice of stone and its position on the paper, the type of pencil used, the number of times each stone was outlined, and the total number of outlines drawn. This is a lesson in the limits of representation, for the only aspects of the garden that remain in the drawings are the two invariables: the proportions of the paper (which roughly approximate those of the garden) and the count of 15 stones that were used for the tracing (though the final result always contains a greater number of stone outlines than the 15 stones of the garden). It is as if the drawings represented the most basic schematic groundplan of the karesansui garden of Ryōan-ji, in potentially infinite abstract variations. The reduction of the garden to its schematic representation in Cage’s drawings radically reduces the figurative sense of the garden (the stones set on raked sand representing mountains arising from the waves of the ocean), and indeed it is only by reference to the title that we know these forms somehow represent the garden, or even stones. With Where R = Ryoanji, we are at the limits of metaphor and representation, due to the transformation of medium and the reduction of form. It would seem that Cage identified with the creators of Ryōan-ji rather than its spectators, valuing creative gesture over spectatorship, process over product, image over icon, presentation over representation.
John Cage, Ryoanji (1983 ff)
Cage subsequently produced, beginning in 1983, a series of musical compositions simply entitled Ryoanji. The graphic score is separated into two parts to be played simultaneously: percussion (invariable through all versions) and instrumental (different scores for various solo instruments, voice, and small ensemble). The different instrumental versions were composed by using the outlines of the same 15 stones utilized for the templates of Where R = Ryoanji. We might surmise that Cage produced these templates rather than redrawing the stones for each new musical composition so as to eliminate the variations that would result from the vagueries of draftsmanship, thus standardizing the series. In each case, the outline of the stone is split horizontally, and only half or less is used.
These templates are randomly placed upon facing pages, with the pitches at the beginning and end of each line randomly determined, and the total pitch range of the piece fixed by the specfic register of the instrument in question. The result is a series of either microtonal steps or glissandi (a continuously rising or falling tone) sounding either independantly or concatenated to form simple melodies. (In the case of overlapping lines in solo scores, one of the glissandi is pre-recorded.) Since the same limited number of curves are reused, the form is vaguely that of a fugue.
Ryōan-ji (composite photo with stones outlined; graphics Tom Rasky)
Perhaps the most interesting question concerning this score is why Cage didn’t simply take a schematic drawing of Ryōan-ji, with the stones represented either in overhead outline or frontal silhouette, using their actual forms and relative positions in the garden to indicate pitch, duration and counterpoint. Such an instrumentalization of the garden would have certainly accorded with Cage’s duchampianism, with the garden serving as a readymade musical score. The shapes that would be generated by the actual stones of the garden – whether drawn from above or frontally – reveal diverse curves, steps, and even flat lines, which would variously translate into glissandi, with whole tone, half-tone, or microtonal steps, and occasional nearly constant pitches. One might argue that while the visual impact of this hypothetical score might be more engrossing than that of Cage’s actual score, its musical manifestation would be less compelling, even somewhat inchoate. However, within a system of chance operations and aesthetic indifference such as Cage’s, this critique would be moot.
I have long wondered why Cage did not do this. I, however, find this possibility intriguing, and thus propose in homage a sketch of my miniature Opus No. 1 (Ryōan-ji for John Cage), scored for any glissando producing instrument (including voice), to be played without vibrato, lanto, mezzo-piano, with pitch to be determined by any preferred random method, according to the range of the instrument.
Allen S. Weiss, Opus No. 1 (2012; graphics Tom Rasky)
“Encounters With Kyoto”Book launch – report by Iris Reinbacher
On Saturday, June 22nd, WiK held the official launch party for the 3rd Writers in Kyoto Anthology, called Encounters With Kyoto. About half of WiK’s members came all the way to Umekoji Park’s Midori Building, where Jann Williams had set up a room full of food, drinks, and books, of course.
After everybody got a cup of sake, the first half of the launch party began with John Dougill’s reminiscences of starting the Writers in Kyoto group in 2015. He also presented all three Anthologies, from the first one that was collated copied pages to the current one which is available on amazon (click here).
Chief editor, Jann Williams
We continued with readings of contributors, headed by Jann Williams, chief editor of the current Anthology. Readings by Ken Rodgers, Mayumi Kawaharada and Marianne Kimura followed. Afterwards, there was a break for our members to mingle and enjoy more sake, international snacks and conversations ranging from the serious to the light-hearted.
The second half of the party began with a speech in honor of Juliet Winters Carpenter, who, after 44 years in Japan, will move back to the US in the near future. As a parting gift, John Dougill presented her with a copy of the third Anthology, signed by all members who were present. Then there was an introduction by Mark Richardson of his latest book “The Wings of Atalanta, followed by a reading about a dramatic moment in US race relations.
Mark Richardson reading from his new book, The Wings of Atalanta
There were more
readings from our book, this time by Fernando, Iris, Mike and Karen, and in the
end, Juliet talked about how she came to Japan in the first place, why Kyoto is
really the best city in the world, and what her latest endeavours were.
After some more sake, sweets and general mingling, the official book launch party was closed. However, in true Japanese style, some members made their way to a private “nijikai” (second party).
If you could not join the party, you can experience the works of our members collected in our third Anthology called “Encounters With Kyoto”, which is available in print on amazon in Japan, the US and the UK (ebook may be coming soon).
Juliet Winters Carpenter, delighted with her signed copy
Mike Freiling introducing his poems
Karen Lee Tawarayama explaining what motivated her to write about ropes made from women’s hair exhibited at Higashi Honganji
Silhouetted against the noonday sky, the president of
Tokai Pearls Ltd. stood at his suite window and surveyed the harbor. His gaze
ranged from the shipyards and submarine docks of Kawasaki Heavy Industries to
the Mosaic shopping mall and its slow-turning Ferris wheel, then to the Port
Tower where tour boats came and went from the ferry terminal, and finally to
the Rokko mountains which lifted the suburbs in a great pale wave above the
sea.
‘Do you know why they call this Pearl
City?’ he asked.
The three dark suits at the back of the
room said nothing. Their collective gaze instead fell to the middle-aged woman
in a blue pants suit who sat on the leather sofa chair in front of them. She
was generously built, wore her hair in a jet black bob, and rested her manicured
hands on a chestnut brown handbag in her lap.
‘Because pearls are a Kobe girl’s best
friend?’ she ventured.
The President boomed. His laughter rolled
about the room like distant thunder. ‘Good, good! I like it,’ he said, then to
the back of the room, ‘Danno, make a note of that. We could use it in
advertising.’
A slim young man with a fashionable
hairstyle gave a curt ‘Hai!’, drew a pen from his breast pocket and scribbled
into a notepad.
The president seated himself behind a desk
of polished walnut; a pink conch shell paperweight to one side, a speed-dial
phone to the other. He was a short man, heavy-set, with a cherubic face and a
smooth, tanned pate which caught the sunlight at such an angle it made him look
almost angelic.
‘I’ll tell you why it’s called Pearl City,
Ms Suzuki,’ he said. ‘Because more pearls pass through this town than anywhere
else in the world, and more pearls pass through this company than any other in
this town. Our reputation, like our pearls, is unblemished.’ He leaned forward.
‘That is why we have asked you here today.’
Suzuki glanced about the room. She noted
the reproductions of old photos showing pearl luggers, turn-of-the-century
fishing villages, and half-naked female divers—the famed ‘sea women’ of
Mie prefecture. She noted the brass diving bell helmet set on the teakwood
sideboard, the mounted staghorn of red coral, and the framed photo of the
Empress of Japan around whose neck gleamed three strands of fine Akoya pearls.
Her gaze returned to the president.
‘Someone is stealing from me and I want to
know who,’ he said, then nodded towards the young man behind her. ‘Danno, here,
is my assistant…’
‘Thank you for coming, Ms Suzuki,’ Danno
said, stepping lightly across the room to his boss’s side. ‘You come highly
recommended.’
‘Oh?’ she said.
‘You did some work for my wife’s sister a
few months ago…a Ms Deguchi?’
‘She said you’re a fast worker. “Very
intuitive” were the words she used.’
‘I had some help…’
‘Nevertheless,’ the president interrupted,
‘there are one hundred and twelve staff at this company, nearly all of them
female. We believe a female detective, such as yourself, stands a better
chance of finding a thief than the City police…We are offering a
three-hundred-thousand yen fee, paid upfront, with another three-hundred
thousand paid to you for proof of the thief’s identity.’ He nodded at Danno,
who reached into his breast pocket, produced a white envelope and passed it to
her.
She felt the tight wad of crisp banknotes
inside and drew a breath, more than a month’s salary in her hands. She looked
up and her gaze was arrested by the image of a solo freediver on the wall
behind the president. She was full-breasted and strong-armed, wearing only a
loin cloth and a line tethered to her waist as she descended the depths on
shafts of sunlight. Suzuki had heard that the ‘sea women’ of Mie could stay
down longer than men—their extra body fat kept them from
freezing. She wondered how much a woman like that had gotten
paid for her time and efforts.
‘Ms Suzuki?’ said Danno. ‘May we have your
answer, please?’
Her gaze returned to the two men and she
breathed out slowly.
**********************
This is the beginning of a longer short story entitled ‘Pearl City’, which can be read on Kindle, Kobo, Smashwords, Apple Books, etc. “for the price of a coffee”. – Simon Rowe www.mightytales.net
For more by Simon, see his poem about kayaking friends here, or his piece about a trucker called Uramoto here, his excerpt from the novella ‘Sword Dancer’ here, or his account of marketing his own book here.
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