Impromptu Anti-Plastic Environmental Activist in Shugakuin – Marianne Kimura
When we moved to our neighborhood almost five years ago, there was a rather large green field on a road near our house. Of course, in the current political climate promoting economic growth, three years ago the field became houses and even one apartment building.
Only one strip
of land along the narrow river, about 15 meters wide by 100 meters long, was
left as grass for a few years. However, last week it was covered up with a long
and thick black plastic mat so that grass would not grow anymore.
I was shocked
by this. Up until now, the grass had been cut regularly but had never been
completely covered up. Having read that the population of insects in the world
has dropped by 75% over the past 40 years, and populations of wild birds have
experienced major declines as well, I could not imagine how people could just
throw away land like this and not share it with wildlife.
It was my
Japanese language lesson the next day, so I took a photograph of this strip of
land covered by plastic and showed it to my teacher, who said “sore ha chotto.
Cosmos nado no hou ga ii”, which means, roughly translated, “no, that is not
very good. How about letting some cosmos and wildflowers grow there?”
I also remembered
that a much smaller and much narrower strip of land, perhaps 1/30 of the size
of the one near my house, had been covered up with a similar plastic sheet on
territory owned by the Kunaicho, the imperial land preserve about two
kilometers from our house, a couple of years ago. I had noticed that plastic
sheet when it was newly installed back then while walking the dog and I had
been extremely dismayed.
Now, after
seeing the new and much larger plastic sheet near my home, I decided to
investigate the older one more closely so I walked over there and brought my
camera to document its condition.
Of course, it
had been degraded by the sun and weather and was now torn in various spots,
which was good since small plants were able to grow back. However, these torn
places also revealed fibrous edges which are shedding plastic fibers into the
environment. I should note that a big river, Otowagawa, is about 10 meters away
from this plastic sheet, so the pieces of microplastic must be going straight
into the water.
Reaching
through the chain-link fence of the Kunaicho, I touched the plastic sheet: it
felt and looked like a sort of thick and heavy plastic foam.
We already
know from various scientific studies that we are drinking and breathing
microplastics in significant quantities every day, and this is not a situation
that should be tolerated.
I plan to
write a letter to Kyoto City and express my opinion that these plastic sheets
are horrible for the environment, for the water and for the increasingly beset
insects and wildlife. Cutting the grass is fine, but covering it over,
especially with something that puts microplastics into the water, should not be
allowed.
It’s not easy
for me to write a technical letter like this in Japanese, so my husband is
helping me. It’s kind of funny because it’s our 27th wedding
anniversary in a few days and I told him it can be his present to me.
I have no idea
if my letter will have any impact. However, I simply have to try. One never
knows when must become an impromptu environmental activist, but that moment has
arrived for me.
****************************
For more by Marianne, see how she landed a contract for her second novel here. For her double life as a Shakespearean scholar and fiction writer, see here.
I can’t remember where the initial idea came from, but I do know that it was three years old. I thought it would be interesting to walk the Kamogawa in Kyoto. By that I mean literally walk the river, straight down the middle of its bed. During the drier days of August, the water looks to be only about shin deep, and would be a refreshing distraction from the heat. And as a companion, it could only be Chris Irwin, who with his hair wild and beard tidy, bears a passing resemblance to Eric Idle’s Jesus. He seemed the perfect co-conspirator in foolish ideas.
I wanted to walk on an incredibly hot day, when the rain hadn’t fallen for a week or more. The more sensible of Kyoto’s foreign expats tend to avoid the heat of August by going abroad, and Chris and I were no exception, which narrowed our window of opportunity to just a week or two each year. Dates would be chosen, and without fail, it would rain heavily the night before. But both of us were in town for much of this summer, one whose weather was taking on the disaster-like proportions of another Irwin, Irwin Allen. And the day finally came.
Japan was currently suffering under a murderous heat wave, and on the day we chose, Kyoto set the national high of 39.8℃. In the spirit of pilgrimage, the section of river between the Kamigamo and Shimogamo shrines seemed a good choice, and the bike ride up to the northern part of the city encased the body in a sweat that would be a delight to rinse off.
We bowed to the deities, under the watchful guise of a shrine worker who I assume carries a protractor to aid the pagan foreign tourist in showing the proper degree of respect. The next angling was down the adjacent riverbank and onto the stony banks beneath the bridge leading to the shrine. Those initial few steps quickly brought with them a welcome respite from the heat.
For a while the river was shallow, well below knee-height. One facet I hadn’t thought too much about was the concrete waterfalls that help control the flow. They are placed at intervals of about two or three hundred meters, and though only a meter or so in height, you could never be sure of the depth at the far side. For the first couple, we found breaks in the stone work from the recent floods, where the water poured through like a waterslide. But we grew more confident as we went, looking down for a moment or so for a rock to step down onto, and then a second step that was a leap of faith into churning white water.
We had companions along the way: blue herons, white egrets, and black cormorants. Mandarin ducks floated at the edge of the waterfalls, eyeing an ease of entry in a way similar to what we’d been doing. A suppon turtle showed itself against the muddy bottom, moving quickly away when it felt the falling over of our shadows. Turtles move pretty quickly in the water, and it when it turned toward us again, we made certain to stay clear of the suppon’s sharp teeth. One thing we didn’t see were the nutria that once hunted the banks down near Demachiyanagi. An invasion species sure, but it was always interesting to see their furry shapes dart from the reeds to the water and back. Sadly the city of Kyoto seems to have deported them once and for all.
It was a joyful walk, Chris and I catching up after a long separation, our tales of recent events broken now and again by film quotes, fragments of song lyrics, or simply comments of overall silliness. We tried to bring some of the locals into the fun, as many on the banks looked incredulously at our undertaking. We waved to absolutely everyone. One old fellow trailed us with his expensive camera, snapping more furiously than the suppon earlier.
As we went along, the water took on a varying degree of depth. While it looked a uniform level from the bicycle path on the river bank, it varied quite dramatically. The fast moving water betrayed the shallows, but the narrow channels were of surprising depth. In a couple of spots we were up to our chests, forcing us to raise our bags and mobile phones over our heads. It was here that Chris broke into his Kate Hepburn imitation: “Is that a leech, Mr. Allnut?”
I imagine that the week of raging waters earlier in July had scoured the riverbed clean of debris and dangerous objects. It was much more stone laden than expected, and every so often I’d lurch to one side as an unseen rock would turn underfoot. I’d opted at the last minute for an old pair of Vibram Five Fingers for this particular mission, and by the time we were at Kuramaguchi Bridge both soles had peeled back like bananas. They separated completely not long afterward, so I stuck them into my pockets and continued along.
Beyond the concrete fish ladders above Demachiyanagi, the water took on a somewhat foul smell, and bits of debris appeared: a tire upon a broken axle; a long section of bamboo fence. I was moving slowly now, every step agony, like the most painful reflexology session in the world. Finally, hand in hand, Chris and I stepped up the actually confluence of the Kamogawa and Takasegawa, as around us college-age students splashed and frolicked and giggled. Only the gods now awaited, as my gait once again returned to its usual stride, and the soft, groomed sand of Shimogamo’s forested approach led us to our final ablutions of thanks.
WiK member Ken Rodgers (Managing Editor of Kyoto Journal ) writes…
With the 75th anniversary of D-Day currently in the news, I was reminded of WiK’s Battle of the Somme reading a few years back, where I shared excerpts from my maternal grandfather’s grim war diaries describing trench warfare. Another book that has great personal significance for me was written by my father, completed just a couple of months before he passed on in 1988, about his time as an RAAF Lancaster bomber pilot in England towards the end of WWII. Title: There’s No Future In It.
My father flew 32 mostly night bombing operations (a ‘tour’ of ops), from East Kirkby in Lincolnshire. By age 23 this former farming lad was a Flight Commander. After finishing his tour (facing many other perilous situations in addition to those excerpted here), he became a test pilot – another dangerous occupation. From his book it’s clear just how truly fortunate he was to survive, and by extension, how I myself, my two sisters – and our sons and daughters too – might so easily never have existed…
{RAAF – Royal Australian Air Force]
**************
Excerpts from There’s No Future In It by Wade Rodgers, D.F.C., ex-R.A.A.F.
Dawn
on June 6 1944 saw the long-awaited Invasion of Europe in the Caen area of
Brittany.
In the early hours a thousand bombers
flew carefully in a wide arc around the cross-channel invasion fleet and knocked out all
ten coastal defence heavy gun batteries ahead of them, so relieving the incoming
boats of a lot of resistance. Of course we were almost certain that This was It
and had confirmation when we flew back empty and, still in the dark, had a look
at the H2S cathode plan indicator showing the immense spread of shipping on its
way south. It was an historic day and we felt we were doing our bit in the
monumental task of getting the troops ashore. But we hadn’t finished yet. Late that
evening we were back again to bomb rail and road intersections in the Caen area ahead
of the invasion, to prevent the arrival of German heavy armoured vehicles and
tanks. Our attack was made under cloud from about 2500 feet for accuracy, too low for photos.
Three nights later we went to Etampes,
just south of Paris. I can’t remember the target and the photo wasn’t clear. On 24 June we
did our eighteenth trip, to Pommereval. This was another railway target in France to
prevent the movement of troops and equipment forward from Reserve positions
towards the invasion coast. Numerous smallish numbers of aircraft were detailed from our
Group and others to cover the network of vital rail and road links over the next month or so.
On the night of 27 June, we went at high level to a major
“Doodlebug” or V1 storage and discharge site at Marquise Mimoyecques. We got a
good target photo but heard later that the
main dump had a concrete roof of such strength that our one thousand pounders would
have had no effect.
Since they first appeared
on June 12, the VI flying bombs had proved to be pretty destructive over southern
England. They had, I think, solid fuel which was converted and blasted out the
back. Thus the monster was “jet-propelled” for the metered amount of
fuel, whereupon
propulsion stopped and vanes tilted it down, to explode on point of impact. The
thing weighed
about a ton and flew from sites on the close French coast, aimed and timed to
reach London as a primary target. Speed was in the order of 450 m.p.h. and only
fast fighters could keep up, so special techniques were evolved. By these,
either they were shot down or, in some instances, a fighter pushed a wing tip up under
a bug’s wing and upset its gyroscopes, sending the thing into the ground, preferably in open
country.
4 July. 20th op. to St Leu
d’Esserent. This was a railway complex (with a branch leading off to V2 storage in
mushroom caves at Criel, which we visited later.) Aiming point photo yet again. Our photos prove we bombed targets.
On 13 July we had a long
trip down the South East of France at a low 5,650 feet, to knock out a great intersection of
railway lines at Culmont Chalindrey. On the way down we watched a raid on another target
off to port. First flares then markers and then red and green target indicators in a cluster.
Right on schedule the main force let go with the lot for fifteen minutes. Real
copybook stuff. Ours went off as well and we got the now almost inevitable
photo of the centre of the yards.
Two nights later we repeated the performance at Nevers, which I think was in the same area. Another second dickey rode with us and we gave him the usual gen, showed him the pretty lights on the ground and took him through the ugly ones at our own level. P/O Sargeant was impressed. I think that on this night we passed through a long gloomy patch of Nimbostratus cloud, both coming and going. Next to Cu-Nimbs and their thunderheads, this is the worst cloud, being amorphous and dark, with no visible horizon even in daylight. In this lot there was the usual freezing rain and icing, but worst of all was the St. Elmo’s fire which flickered from the edges to the centre of the cockpit canopy and windscreen and also the turrets, blinding us and probably all the other crews in the aircraft stream.
Yes, the weather was often
as troublesome as the opposition and the two together made for bad relations! And yes,
again, there were far too many collisions than was healthy. Always, aircraft
were turning short or overshooting or just drifting through the stream and we
were always
on the alert for them. At a distance at night there seemed, at first, very
little difference between friend or foe. A lot of gunners, trigger-happy and lonely in
their turrets hour after hour, shot first and asked questions only if there was anything still in
sight.
Here I might mention
weaving and banking searches. On the first trip, with Rogers, I was appalled to see him use the
auto-pilot for long stretches, even over Germany. Some Squadrons encouraged its use but I
always swore I never would, and in fact never did, engage the thing, even on the final long
trek to Konigsberg of 10 hours 40 minutes. You see, there were always those two seconds to
disengage it and I wanted those two seconds to start evasive action when necessary. Also its use
discouraged banking searches which put the aircraft almost on her wingtips so that the
gunners and others could look deep down below us, always the dangerous black spot, not normally visible to them.
After the war we were astounded
to learn that some bright gun enthusiast of a Luftwaffe mechanic had hatched up a
rig for mounting two upward firing cannons, 20mm or larger, in the roof of a JU88
twin-engined night fighter and, ultimately, in the more efficient Messer-schmitt210. With their own
radar, and being vectored into a stream of our bombers, they could latch onto one and come up
behind and below. They then moved right in under the bomber’s belly and lined up the
cannon on the starboard main fuel tank between inner engine and fuselage. One rapid burst
and they dropped smartly away to avoid the inevitable fire and explosion or wing burning
off. One ace pilot has been credited with some 160 kills in this way and on one night downed six
Lancs in 30 minutes. Two PFF [Pathfinder] types were flying along side by side
in formation when an Me210 came up and knocked down one of them. The other
didn’t seem
to notice he was alone and followed his mate to eternity two minutes later. One
crew member survived and told the
tale.
I was always wary of this
blank spot underneath, even though I didn’t know of this enemy invention, which they called Schrage Muzik —
Jazz Music.
“Weaving” was officially frowned
upon, in fact, forbidden. There was increased danger of collisions in the Stream,
obviously, and it was not conducive to orderly navigation. Jimmy and I talked
this over and experimented with gentle weaving over a given distance, noting
the slightly
longer travel time from A to B. I did a weave that evened out over a distance,
being neither
regular nor pronounced. The result was a variation of directional flying, by
which radar predictors
for flak batteries might be foxed. Also, as we saw later, fighters would come
up, have a
look from well back and, deciding that this bloke was awake, slide off in
search of an easier
victim. We’ve actually seen this happen and a stream of tracer putting paid to
an adjacent Lanc.
18 July. D-Dog to Caen with
13,000 lb. at 12,000 feet. This was a famous raid in which a thousand Lancs and
Halifaxes dropped the load at daylight on the German troops preventing the Allied breakout from
the beach-head. It was a most intensive raid and we got no photos through the pall of dust and smoke that arose.
After our bombing run, we
came around to starboard and spent some time having a grandstand view of the landing
operations, the “Mulberry” harbour and the mass of shipping pouring in materials to the shore.
The next day we did a
second daylight raid, to Criel Thiverny at 14,300 feet, too low for a daylight, we all agreed.
This was the mushroom cave complex in which were stored the V2 rocket bombs, fiendish
things which were launched almost vertically and reached a speed of some 3000
m.p.h. on the downward path. I had had experience of these in London one early
morning, after travelling up from Plymouth. I’d gone into the station, bought a
cup of tea and was
just about to sip it when there was a resounding bang somewhere nearby,
followed by the whistle
of this V2, which had travelled faster than sound. I didn’t stop to enquire but
took the next train North out of
London.
On this fine afternoon in
July, we arrived over Criel Thiverny and everything was laid out below. Somehow Fred was not
happy with our run-up, even though we were in the Stream, and I was horrified
to hear him say, “Dummy run, go around again.” Instead of grabbing
the emergency
bomb release and letting them go, I did just that, went round again.
There, completely on our own, we made another run-up on the tunnel entrance. The 88mm guns had gone silent and all was peaceful as we dropped the load. Seconds later, and I wonder now why the gunners waited so long till the bombs had gone, a box barrage of 88mm shells burst all around us. From the upper turret, Frank shouted, “We’re hit!” over the intercom. No thought of the camera run, now half over, was in anyone’s mind. I slammed the wheel and rudder hard over and went into a screaming dive to starboard. Even in the heat of the moment it was instinctive to go starboard, as I’d drilled myself for such an occasion — the Germans thought all British pilots turned port, as in a circuit of an English airfield. The next box barrage, which took twelve seconds from the ground at this height, arrived just where we would have been, but we were now screeching back around to the west and all taps were open in our hurry to get out of that place.
The Stream of Lancs were mere specks in the distance and we had no hope of catching them. The fighter escort covering the operation at 30,000 feet would be on their way back as well and we were on our Pat Malone. There was little conversation till we reached the coast in record time. By luck we went over no more flak batteries and not one fighter appeared — a flight of Messerschmitts could have made mincemeat of us. I still have the last camera photo — oblique to the left
There was one flak hole through the fuselage wall and the chunk of hot metal was imbedded in the ammunition trays to Frank’s turret, below his feet. How lucky we were — I hope even Fred the Atheist said a little prayer of thanks to Someone.
These daylight ops. were
frightening things. One felt so exposed — we could see the ground and the gunners down
there could see us no doubt, if they weren’t glued to their radar predictor screens.
Certainly they would have been aware, in this case, of an aircraft doing a run over the target alone
and our height of 14,000 feet was in very easy range. They could, in fact, fire accurately at
well over 20,000 feet, tracking us with radar and with fuses set to our height. At night we felt
hidden in the dark and even the flak bursts were a quick flash and the smoke merged with the
background. In daylight the bursts left small black “mushrooms” of smoke writhing and curling
in the air; a barrage from six to eighteen guns at close range around us, as we flew in on the
bombing run, gave the impression of an inescapable barrier. With multiple
“boxes” stretching ahead there was a strong natural urge to swing
away, away anywhere
except the place where they expected us to be. But, as gaggle leaders, we
couldn’t be
seen to waver and we just had to plough on through it, with a prayer wrung from
the heart…
“… Lord
help us… we can’t help ourselves…”
On the night of 24/7, we
went to Donges, St. Nazaire, in S.W. France, to do something about U-boats, I think. Oil storages? That
wasn’t our worry.
LE-D for Dog was far ahead
of the Stream this time, far ahead of the Pathfinders, thirty minutes ahead in fact. Jim
Campnett had been detailed to get a three-drift wind and get it radioed back to Command pronto
so that it could be passed back to PFF and Main Stream for bombing. To do this we
fixed our starting point by Gee, one of the Nav aids in use in short range of transmitters in
England. Then I flew a smooth triangle of equal length and Jim found the wind drift from our old to
the new ground position. “Right, whizz this off, Tommy”.
Thank goodness we got that
done for, a matter of minutes later, searchlights stabbed out of the darkness and pinned
us against overhead cloud. Up, too, came the flak to our 8,300 foot level and there
was a twang as something hit us. At this height the searchlight cone was very broad and escape
sideways would have been long and dangerous. Suddenly I stuffed the wheel forwards and LE-D screamed earthwards.
Too sudden
for the searchlight boys, we shot into darkness and I tried to pull out of the
near vertical dive. Nothing doing. Heavy with bombs, she reached 420 m.p.h. —
that is, 60 m.p.h. above safe speed empty. Jack lent his weight to the
wheel and I used trim tabs to ease her slowly back and upstairs again. In
the nose, Fred swore he saw the ground rushing up at him and we were all shaken
by the scrape with death. (Years later, a boffin worked it out for me and estimated that we were 2,000 feet
underground on our pull-out!)
Nothing
loth, we then had to nip smartly out and swing into the Stream as they followed
a known track over Donges. I did this merging back into a bomber stream at
other times through the tour and believe me, it’s not a pleasant thing to do with
“kites” whizzing past you on the turn. However, we bombed and got our
photo. Jimmy got a Mention in Despatches for his wind, which was spot-on and made the raid a
success.
The
homeward run was not a happy one. Something was wrong with our main hydraulics and we soon
found out what it was — there was no oil pressure to the system — no brakes, no flaps, no
undercarriage, etc. We found afterwards that a chunk of flak (it’s now in the drawer of my
desk) had entered the leading edge of the starboard wing between my cockpit and the inner
engine and had torn through three of the six hydraulic lines, to become
embedded in the main wing
spar.
Landing in
no-wind conditions and without flaps and brakes, (Jack had lowered the wheels with the
emergency air system), I ran on through the boundary fence and came to rest in
a paddock
of hay stooks! The Group Captain came charging out in his car, demanding to
know the Captain’s name, but he changed his tune when Bert leaned out of his
turret and told him who it was and the circumstances. We all had a laugh
about it when we got in to de-briefing.
630 Squadron LE-D Dog ME739
The Lancaster
A total of
7,377 Lancasters were built and 3,345 were lost in action. They flew 156,318
sorties and dropped 608,613 tons of
bombs.
Vital
statistics: Wingspan 102 ft. Length 69 ft. Height 20 ft. Engines 4 x 1,460 h.p.
Rolls Royce “Merlin”. Weight empty
36,900 lbs. Fully loaded 68,000 lbs.
Cruising speed
full loaded — normally kept at 160 m.p.h. indicated airspeed for optimum performance, which seemed slow when the
enemy were shooting at us! Actually the 160 m.p.h. at 20,000 feet with allowance for atmospheric temperature and
pressure, could be 210 m.p.h. true airspeed and, with a following wind of 60
m.p.h., real speed over the ground would be 270 m.p.h.
The Bottom Line
From 1939 to 1945 Bomber Command lost 8,325 aircraft all told with
about 330 others lost on minelaying and secret operations. Of these 2,573 were lost in 1944.
55,573 aircrew, out of a total of approximately 100,000, plus 1,363 male
ground staff and 91 WAAFs died while serving with Bomber Command. Of these, 4,050 aircrew
were in the RAAF.
Edited by Jann Williams and Ian Josh Yates Foreword by Juliet Winters Carpenter
Inside these covers lies the third collection of enticing works by Writers in Kyoto. From gardens to gangsters, temples to tourism, ceramics to Casablanca, the diverse writings of 22 authors will capture your imagination. Fresh new authors place their work alongside established and respected writers already known for their insights into Japan. All find inspiration from the muse of Kyoto city. The works include dreamy fiction, memorable non-fiction as well as remarkable poetry on the city that’s inspired a million poems. New works by Alex Kerr and Simon Rowe bookend the newest winners of the annual Writers in Kyoto Competition and much more. A captivating thread running through the anthology is the invitation to encounter and reflect on the splendour of the ancient city yourself. For those who are still to visit Kyoto, and those who have already been, what will your story be?
Contents
Encountering
Kyoto’s Writers
Foreword. Juliet Winters Carpenter.
Primal Memories. Alex Kerr
Two Poems. A.J. Dickinson
An Intercalary Moment. Allen S. Weiss
A Different Kind of Tourist Amy Chavez
The Wild Spaces Within Edward J. Taylor
Benevolent Fire. Fernando A. Torres
My Complicated Encounters with Kyoto. Ian Josh Yates
The Forbidden Garden. Iris Reinbacher
Toji Moments. James Woodham
Shinsen’en, a Heian-kyo Power Spot. Jann Williams
WRITERS IN KYOTO COMPETITION: 2018 WINNERS Tengu: A Firsthand Account Terin Jackson How Many Chances? S. Juul Harukaze. Anna Quinn
Milestones. John Dougill
The Will of the People: Higashi Hongwanji’s Hair Ropes. Karen Lee Tawarayama
Encountering Kyoto. Ken Rodgers
Childhood Memories. Mayumi Kawaharada
Essays by One who was Not Quite Idle Enough Marianne Kimura
Scribbled in Miyako. Mike Freiling
Everybody Comes to Kyoto. Preston Houser
A Wizard, Kawai Kanjiro: Kyoto Ceramic Artist. Robert Yellin
Writing on behalf of the judges, Competition Organiser Karen Lee Tawarayama comments that this , “A vivid account of the atmosphere surrounding Gozan Okuribi, the final Buddhist festival of the Obon season, touching on the accompanying deep, bittersweet feelings of those who have lost precious family members within recent months but must let their spirits go until the following year’s visit.”
Okuribi by Lisa Wilcut, USA, resident in Yokohama, Japan
perfect timing, isn’t it, the rain letting up like that I’d almost given up still, you almost can’t breathe, it’s so humid but it’s better up here mmm, a little breeze wait, I’ll get some beer
ahh, that’s just the thing itadakimasu and that one? drinking two, are you? for your mother, ne I have to look away, the tears. Kaa-san, kanpai! he says, raising both glasses in the direction of Otani —the darkness kindly hiding the pain I can’t hold back.
This year, our first to welcome her at Obon. From the hotel roof, the spirits nearly palpable in the haze that hovers over the city like heavy gauze.
ah! Daimonji! it’s lit, it’s lit! look, look!
The kanji shape, a nascient glow in the distance; small lights, set apart, slowly growing brighter until the whole shape burns glowing, shifting in the wind, burning up the air.
great idea, watching from here mmm - His eyes fixed in the distance.
look, look!
Straight ahead, the next fire starts to twinkle, myoho, for the lotus sutra. that’s my favorite ah, so? the two characters, snuggled up like that mmm, suppose so
Next, the boat, then the left daimonji. Why do the fires move left? Buddhism usually moves clockwise.
And finally, the torii. No, don’t light it just yet. Not the last one. Okaasan, don’t go. Stay, just a little longer.
“Sunrise Over the Kamogawa” by Ina Sanjana (UK citizen living in Kyoto)
From the judges: “Homelessness within Kyoto is a rarely discussed topic, and Kamogawa Park is often viewed more as a recreational area for joggers, cyclists, children, dog walkers, couples, and instrumentalists. The judges appreciated this alternative perspective.”
Sunrise Over the
Kamogawa
In the daytime, he would like someone to look his way and
see him. He would like to hear someone say his name, even in contempt.
He catches snippets of gossip from the passers-by, and
stitches them together day by day. The city has spent money on new
announcements in the shopping street. On signs. On apps. On leaflets.
It rained last night, and his socks and shoes are damp. He
sets them out to dry beside a bench, and lies down for a nap.
Looking up, he notices that someone has looped a string
through a bike key and hung it reverently from a branch, so that it might be
reunited with its owner. It swings back and forth in the breeze. He shuts his
eyes firmly, and drifts off to sleep.
Darkness falls. Around 1am, after the last trains have
departed, the night is his. He ambles down to collect the discarded drinks cans
by the water’s edge. He necks a lingering mouthful here and there. Later, in
the morning light, the volunteers with their litter-pickers will descend,
snaking down the river that they groom and dote upon.
When his bags are full of cans to sell, he rinses his
hands in the clear water, wincing from the cold. He settles by the bank to
rest.
He watches as the sky over the mountains fades from black
to purple. He lets himself feel the ache in his back, the chill in his bones,
and the weight in his heart. In this calm and stillness, they don’t seem so
overwhelming. The mountains and the sky remain the same day after day, constant
and indifferent to everything, and the clear, cherished water flows on and on,
as it will for another thousand years.
[In keeping with long-time legends of the ghosts and spirits that reside in Kyoto, this piece reminded the judges of the Kwaidan stories gathered by Lafcadio Hearn, simultaneously chilling and tender.]
Yurei Ame/ Ghost Candy by Marianne Kimura, Canadian, resident in Kyoto
Who was
that?
The same
woman as last night and the night before.
The one
in the midnight-blue kimono?
Yes, with
the pattern of the moon and the rabbits in yellow and gold.
What did
she want? The same thing?
Yes, the
same thing.
Dusk on
Matsubara Street, the sound of the temple bell at Kinnenji, to the north,
tolling evening prayers. Yasaburo started stacking the bags of barley-tea candy
into a large shallow box made of paulownia wood to protect them from the
humidity and dust.
The
shadows flickered near the faded red shop curtain in the doorway and Yasaburo
held his breath as the young woman glided in.
One bag,
please.
Yasaburo’s
voice clotted up in fear, but he somehow managed to croak out the price, for
the sake of maintaining appearances, though the woman in the midnight-blue
kimono was already holding out the right coin. He took it gingerly and her
fingertips, like icy swan’s feathers, brushed against his skin. The coin was as
cold as death, like all the others she had given him.
Thank
you, she murmured, so softly it was hard to catch.
Or was
this whisper just Yasaburo’s imagination?
She lifted
her left sleeve and dropped the bag inside the silken pocket. The shimmering yellow
moons on her kimono glimmered faintly, rocking to sleep the rabbits, pale and
peaceful celestial stowaways.
Exactly
three days later, the baby, very much alive, would be found, muddy, naked, and crying
in an open grave, though his mother, the woman who they assumed was his mother,
that is, had been buried after her funeral ceremony, seven days before that.
Yasaburo received this miraculous news first with trepidation, then, as the days passed, with an increasing sense of serenity, but the woman never returned.
*********************
For more by WiK member Marianne Kimura, please click here or here or here.
Kevin Ramsden admiring his prize for ‘Kyomojo’, a very personal take on life in Kyoto
Kyomojo (by Kevin Ramsden, British, Kyoto resident)
A one, two three …
Scoffin’ down a bento / slippin’ in a sento / Air BnB for rento Yamazaki whisky / pickled veg from Nishiki / horumon very risky Rubbery wakame / shellin’ edamame / dollars? sorry, dame Peko chan and poko, have a go at taiko / Ooh!, look there’s a maiko Giant gates on jinjas / dressing up as ninjas / join the sake bingers Singing on the maiku / speeding on a baiku / knocking out a haiku Stumbling Kiyamachi / WiFi pretty patchy / is J-Pop that catchy? Irashaii doormat / izakaya chit-chat / green tea flavor Kit-Kat Nikon with a monster zoom / more hotels than actual room /no end to the ramen boom? Bizen, basho, bamboo / hard rock kanji tattoo / Kyoto gin and yuzu Walking with philosophy /different season, different tree /shocking cost of ma ma Brie!! Trooping up the Kamogawa / umeboshi red and sour /BBQ up on the tower Tinko tinko tinko / dinko dinko dinko / plinko plinko pachinko Ebi fry and chewy kaki / sushi? OK, make mine maki / OKONOMIYAKI!! Incense sweetly smellin’ / ceramic beauty sellin’ / go see Mr. Yellin Dodgy looking manga / soft and muted anger / another loss for Sanga Funny voice on Hankyu man / underwear bought in a can / curry CoCo ichi ban Summer yuka lazing / ice cold brewski raising / Daimonji blazing Fake food in the window / very pricey budo / gee gees down at Yodo Cherry blossom party / wrestlers hale and hearty / Okazaki arty Pig and ING and Rub a Dub / dancing at the Metro Club / Dave. D sitting in the HUB Hallowed ground and Hello Kitty / oni, tengu not as pretty …This is my Kyoto City.
******************* For more by Kevin, click here.
Kevin Ramsden at the Yakimono Gallery holding up this year’s local prize, kindly donated by gallery owner Robert Yellin
(For a full list of prizewinners, please click here on 2019 Competition ).
Fade by Samantha JC Hoh, Philadelphia, USA
“Did
you know cicadas actually live for many years?”
Tak, tak. Our sandals smack the stone in rhythm as
I try not to stumble over the hem of my yukata.
“Really?
I didn’t know that.”
“It’s
true! They spend years underground and only come out when they’re ready to
mate. Then they die off and the cycle continues, I guess.”
The
sun is disappearing behind the trees, bathing the sky in blinding gold. I
inhale the heavy air and listen. The cicadas’ cries are high and mournful. Like
my own breathing, I’ve become so accustomed to them that I no longer hear them
until I concentrate. Before, they used to wake me.
“What
a sad life.”
“You
think so?” His tone is indifferent, and he pauses a moment. “You know, you’re
lucky you won’t be here when they start dying. They drop out of the trees and
land in people’s hair.” He grins at me.
But, I think, the dying has already started. The other day I saw one on its back,
writhing like a fat, dismembered thumb with bulging eyes. Its legs were still
moving, erratic and slow.
Help! Anyone, please help! If you could
just get me back on my feet again, I’ll be able to fly! I’ll fly away and sing
for you…
A
cool breeze dries the sweat from my hairline, and I catch the scent of cotton
candy. I wipe my hands on my thighs and force a chuckle. “Why are we talking
about bugs, anyway? You better not make me lose my appetite.”
“We
both know you never would,” he says, and I give him a shove.
That
night, we promise to meet again as the fireworks disappear into the black sky.
The
chorus fades when summer ends, and I’m already long gone.
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