A Moment of Violet, A Moment of Pink

It was nearing the end of the so-called workday, even for me, and my mind and eyes started focusing on other things than the business (of writing) which was at hand.  This is of course the easiest thing for an idler, to suddenly be caught up by something else, and so was the case that evening when I saw the sun setting over this part of the world.  The violet pink was something I wanted to capture for myself and also to send to someone, but as anyone knows (except perhaps those who pose as photographers of the professional variety), it is impossible to freeze a moment.  All the more true with words.

Case in Point and Lines

I did not realize before coming here that I would not have a steady supply of pens, thinking that I had at least two boxes (each of 12) waiting for me should the time come when I needed it.  It was, then, a surprise and a shock when I found out that I did not provide for this- but, then, three months of in-between time is a lot for someone who has a short term memory for such things.

While this is not really a problem, as Japan is the country which produces a good number of great stationery, I am a little sad that I cannot continue using the pen that I have been using for the past however number of years.  Yes, it is true that I did not like it because of the way they replaced the cap with a plastic component (easily breakable, and which I have broken on many an occasion), but the sheer convenience afforded by familiarity is what I am looking for.

There was no exact version at the store, but I found an approximate one by the same company, and also a thinner nib.  This is the crucial point for me and always has been.  I love the razor like incision of pen on (good) paper, and this new one will come along with me for the ride (for now). That is, until I decide it is the right one and I go out and buy some boxes of it.

old one (left), new one (right) on new sofa.

The Heat and the Fight Against It

It was with great displeasure that I found out that the "Two Weeks of Summer" are upon us now here in this city/town, because I am of the City proper, that is to say, far and away from the countries, places and environments where sun and surf (and general lay about behavior) determine one's life.  There is to my mind no worse time than to have to spend even a minute at the beach, so you can well imagine my dislike when I cannot walk around with suit and tie at my leisure, having to rifle through my small collection of "comfortable" clothing (which is not comfortable to me at all), and praying that the summer comes to its early end.  Please, please do.

Yes, I do hate the summer.

With that in mind, I thought I would showcase some shaved ice from a vendor nearby, where for 100 yen, one can use the fruit syrups to one's delight.

Drink Up, Continued

After the Kirin all you can drink, it was onto a bus (provided by the JIA or Kirin, I did not know, and it doesn't really matter) and was taken back to Sendai Station (the main transportation point, from which the boozers of the evening could find their way back home, whether by walking, bus, train, or taxi).  I chose the walking.

On the way back, there is a Kirin (again Kirin) Frozen Beer that has been mentioned to me enough times, well, each time that I pass by it, so I decided to give in to temptation (which I probably did not need to do) and have a Frozen Beer.  It was not so much frozen as pretty cold, and the froth on the top was the most fun part (resembling a slush of sorts).

I am glad to have tried it, but between you and me, I probably should have had it another time.  By the way, the walk back was a bad idea.  I was exhausted and it was hot outside.  I don't quite remember much else after that, as I was (and am still now as I write this) wiped out.

Nonetheless, cheers!

not ice cream. an advert for the frozen beer.

Drink Up (Two Hour Edition)

I tagged along to the 26th Annual JIA (Japanese Institute of Architects) gathering last night, and it was rather interesting indeed to be surrounded mostly by fellows, with only about ten or so women thrown in for good measure.  What I found the most strange was that they were not dressed in any stylish way (or wearing architects' black), but was soon told that the only ones who do that work in the trendy section (such as store design, restaurant design) and they needed to look like that.  Well, here any of these fellows could have passed for the "salaryman" types that populate any city in Japan.  I don't mind it all, the lack of pretense.

The party was held at the Kirin Beer Factory, and it was an all you can drink for two hours, with some foods thrown in.  I am sorry to say that once the beers started coming, it was a Ray Style of the old days taking over, drinking one, one more and then one more and then why not another, until it was last call, but I did a number of the beers (and they did a number on me, as I am a bit destroyed this morning).

Well, what did I expect?  Perhaps I should have been like that fellow at my table who only had one or two beers and drank iced tea afterwards.  But, who am I kidding?

It begins.  Last sober shot.

Leaving the factory.  Kirin sign in distance.  Haze.

A Display of Wares

They do things differently here.  You can probably say that about any other place, I am sure of it, but that's just how I wanted to start off this here little post.

Even at the thrift store, known collectively as recycling shops, which is a more accurate name, there is such cleanliness and organization that defies imagination.  All the clothes are featured either by brand, by color or by type (jacket, shirt, t-shirt, etc) and is so easily sorted through (especially if one is looking for a certain kind of item). 

The following is an image of the vases and Japanese style pottery that was on offer at the one place that I went to.  From a distance, I thought that I hit the lottery, having never seen such a variety on offer (and most likely, at affordable prices) but upon closer inspection, they were more things that were styled in Japanese tradition (not quite Orientalist, but two steps removed), and had none of the depth or love (handicraft) that is exhibited in truly superior (museum quality) pieces.  Some of them, it turned out, were not even made in Japan.

A Moment in Church

There's a catholic church not far from here, which I went for a little look see about two weeks ago.  It was my usual curiosity about all kinds of religious buildings and their architecture, and my hope that there would be something in there that would be magical (although that is really the antithesis of religion)- you know, I have always been interested in the pursuit of secret, mysterious things.

Well, it was a common enough church building, but a welcome respite from the heat outside (inside the church being rather cool).  There being nobody inside (it was an early weekday afternoon), I decided to do a short piece of writing, an extended paragraph, really, though quite long and rather good (so I think, which may not be the case at all) and sat there a little while longer before I went back out into the heat.

I am sure I said a prayer in there, too- probably my usual one, which is a rather curious mix of this and that.

Help is on the way. Ho ho ho.

The other day, while at the Summer Festival, I saw one of the booths for bottled tea using some interesting looking character as part of its promotion.  While I was unable to get one of the bottles (you had to buy something from one of the food booths and they would give you a stamp, but they were sold out), I did get the circular fan after asking nicely.

When I returned to the apartment, I soon found out that this animated character has a long history, appearing as far back as the late 1960s.  He is known as Warau Salesman (Laughing Salesman), and is featured (always smiling that diabolical smile) in manga comics (a set of 5, of which I was unable to find book 1 in the stores yesterday) and anime television shows.  It turns out that the stories are right up my alley (I did see two episodes on-line)- which can be said to be a Twilight Zone type scenario where the Laughing Salesman sees one character and his/her problems, helps them out but in the end, it turns out much like selling one's soul to the devil.

Just my type of fun.

Sweets and Bitter

Over the weekend, I took a detour from my usual routes of walking, hoping that I would be able to see something new (or, rather, some things old) and it really paid off.  There were a slew of stores and homes that were of a certain era (before the War, that is to say, before 1945), because according to the seniors who we spoke to, this city was almost completely destroyed during that particular fight for "freedom".

There was a candy store which I had to go into.  One glance made me know that it was the kind of place that I am most interested in- one foot in the past and another in the grave.  Yes, this is a kind of nostalgia, but again, it is not a nostalgia for my own youth (of which this plays no part) but a nostalgia in general for days past.

We soon found out that the War had indeed destroyed most of the buildings in the area, including this particular candy store (which belonged to the owner's parents, the owner being in her 70s or 80s).  They had to rebuild the store and changed to these more modern candies because the equipment to make the traditional Japanese sweets was destroyed. and material/food stuffs was hard to come by.  That was almost seventy years ago.

Another story is that it is most often adults (nostalgic ones) who come by the store, as kids nowadays do not go out much (the fear of it not being "safe" even in this very safe country) and they do not enjoy these kinds of candies anyway.  Well, I can't really blame them.  Time is time, but in the meantime (the mean times), I will go pick up my sweets from her shop.

Coming Up Zero

Today was my first time in attendance at the monthly flea market/antiques market at the temple, although I probably went a little too late in the day (it having started at 7am but I was there well past noon, so whatever "treasures" were there were already snatched up by the dealers and etc), but it was still a fun time as I was able to see some nice things (not quite "antique" but older, of at least one or two generations before mine, which is not really ancient).

As usual, my material desires started to kick in and I was dead set on getting something, but all I could find was a little knick knack for a friend and it wasn't that good anyway, so she won't be seeing that in the mail anytime soon.  As for me, my eyes bulged out when I saw the possibility of a writing desk, but when push came to shove, I realized that in my otherwise small apartment, there would be no place for it to be used to its best ability.  There was also a walking stick, but then, as with every other time I think of getting one, I feel I best not, as it might jinx me (since I walk perfectly well, so far, knock on wood and all that)

Next time, though, I'm sure I will score a good deal many things.  As I always say, I've got a good feeling about it...

Ha!

Night Falls (Daytime Edition)

so, let me tell you, though i'm pretty much talking to myself right now...i was moving right along pretty well there for this morning and early afternoon, patting myself on the shoulder in advance. and then, from out of nowhere, I hit an absolute wall, one that I was not expecting in the least, but it's probably all my doing and it will take some time to undo, I am sure, but, well, that's what writing's for, ain't it?

 

These Foolish Things

In the walking arcade that defines the heart of town (Sendai. I mean) there are a number of small alleyways, but only one of them has the character of retro luxury and suspension in time.  This is one which seems to exist independently of everything and everyone walking by- a random check indicated that of twenty people walking by, only one person looked in (I am sure if I did this with more people, the number would still be low).  Anyway, it was an interesting enough experience to walk through, and its aesthetic was still very much up my alley.

When I looked at the names of the businesses which were contained inside (and upstairs), there was the "Vilevan, which used to be called the Village Vanguard until the real deal jazz club in new york threatened a lawsuit for using their name, upon which it became the abbreviated version that exists today.  Not sure how it looks like inside, but I am sure it doesn't have the atmosphere of that beloved place where all the legends played, in all their black and white photographic glory- although you could probably smoke here unlike at the original.

food, snack and jazz on the third floor

hotel style display (empty)

Not just hope. Anti Nuclear.

I read that there was a large anti-nuclear protest in Tokyo yesterday, attended by a good number of people (despite its being a holiday).  That is good, great. Only someone whose pockets are lined with blood money would be otherwise.  I would like to add my support from a distance, and probably so will this kid (and his parents)

They will survive

Yesterday was a holiday here in the land of the Rising Sun (yes, rising- it has never set, as with other empires around the world, despite the best and worst of intentions), so I trekked (well, really, was driven) to the nearby town Shiogami for their annual summer festival.  Having never been to a proper festival (that wasn't about music and beer, or barbeque and beer, or an unhealthy mix of all three), it was surely interesting to see the level of participation at this local event.  Every generation participated in their own way, and nobody was denied a role.  What was most interesting for me was the division along gender lines, the so-called tradition, and this made a whole lot of sense (for example, they let the men carry the one ton shrine, which is probably a relief even for more feminist women hidden in the town).

The whole point of the festival was to transfer the portable shrines (each weighing a literal ton) from the Shrine proper, down two hundred steep stairs (whose bright idea this was is probably asked every year),whereupon it is transported by hand through the town down to the port, where two elaborate ships (one with a dragon motif, the other with a phoenix) are awaiting them.  They are then sailed around the local ports and then return gloriously to their original location.  It is meant to herald the beginning of a new season/year, and to protect the local community and town.

That all this happened in Shiogami, one of the places that was affected by last year's damned earthquake and tsunami, is all the more astounding.  If I was not told, I would not have realized the extent of any damage- but, the truth was that there were many new homes, which had to be built to replace the old ones.

And even the sun, glaring down with heat stroke inducing fury, could not stop them, nor us, nor me from being there to celebrate.

awaiting the portable shrines as they proceed down.

it only looks a little hard.  it's actually very hard.

dance, dance, dance come what may

At Ease

Now, with even more time on my hands than usual- the old 9 to 5 not having worked out for lack of interest in pursuing its tedium- I was amusing myself this morning by looking at a bunch of childish retro nonsense when I returned back to the comfortable confines of literary pursuits (or the pursuit of literary figures, a more accurate description).

William Falkner is who I am talking about. No misspelling there, I am referring to the William Faulkner before he rose to the top, when he used his family name without an additional "u".  It turns out that one of his kinfolk was a famous writer, now of course forgotten, and young William did not want to be in his shadow, which is a laudable move (given our age which seems more prone to nepotism than any).

With that little chit chat out of the way, I saw that in the University of Mississippi days, young Falkner contributed not only his written works to the Annual but also some drawings- of which this is one example, and quite fun (although dated, as any graphic eye can tell you which time period this is from). As a side-note, my other Southern favorite (Flannery O'Connor) also tried her hand at cartooning.

Doesn't Make the Cut

Not quite sure what the following images have to do with the recycling effort, which is already strong enough as it is (separate days for recycling different kinds of trash, specified bags in which to purchase and use, as well as the most important element of citizens actually following the instructions), but it was interesting enough to capture. I am sure it will remind the more visual readers among you of the colorful  painted advertisements used to promote black and/or caribbean hairstyles, which used to be seen (and probably still are) in, among other places, los angeles.

Whatever the case may be, it's a fun poster in a land of gimmicky ones.

Two, the Same or Different

I had a chance to go to the annual Churchill art exhibition at the library here but was surprised to see that there was nothing whatsoever related to the man himself.  Turns out that the whole idea of it was that it is a showcase for hobby painters, much like Churchill was when he was not running the country. Now, with any kind of exhibition, even the worst one imaginable (think the New Museum or a performance of modern music), there is bound to be something that will strike me, and in this case, it was this set of portraits- of an age that to my eyes is indeterminate, but must be at least from the 1950s (if judging by the clothes of the woman on the right), but I with even my wide and limited knowledge of such things, may be absolutely wrong, but that is no matter- for I came out of it alive, and much better, although for a reason that may be totally unrelated, my heart was broken (again).

A Way Out (Rainfall Edition)

It was raining again today, as it was a few nights ago, when things seem dark (but not at its darkest), and, again the days and nights go by in their way, but yesterday was different as there was a spark, and then sparks, and then the combined loneliness and frustration and boredom and enthusiasm of time here started to begin to have some kind of purpose and idea, which was exciting because it seemed to point a way out (and a way in).

Let me say that it will be a story about a neighborhood.

So, let the rain fall, as it always does, and as it always will.

the view from one of my windows.  before.

The Straight Path, pure and true

This morning, I had the unfortunate situation of having to deal with and come to loggerheads with bureaucracy, one which cannot think outside of the book and another which is more of a kafkaesque nightmare that I won't go into.  Once again, I have to support the idea of a general disconnect from society, the world, et cetera, but not from people or things which can motivate, inspire, enthrall...

To escape from the craziness, I decided to make my way to the zen temple and the japanese garden about fifteen minutes away from my house, and there I was able to enjoy a walk through a small forest and to think thoughts that were beyond (but still of) myself- the case in point is that I was looking at the flowers with an intention to catch one, which I did, so I knew for a fact that I was not in the total "zen" spirit- but, also, I was not in that kind of frame of mind.

I also tried to do some writing there, but there were too many bugs all around.  That, and the lack of even a somewhat comfortable place to sit, brought that project to an end, so I came back to the studio and am fiddling around, taking a little time here and there to do things such as write this post, but I know that there's work to be done.  Trust me, I know...

With a lot of help from my friends.

Today it was suggested that I may have a bit of culture shock, but upon a quick read through of all that such a thing entails, I am not quite sure one way or another, but am inclined to think that this place, like any place which does not offer up the abundance of material pursuits and culture galore, is just like any other place.

Most fortunately, I have as my companions some new and old friends, by which I mean two bookshelves (not filled, alas) with books that have been shipped to me (by me).  I knew that in this place where one would be hard pressed to find proper literature (such is the case, surprisingly, in New York and London as well, and they are english speaking countries), I best stock up on what I could (and I did), in terms of what I really would need and what might be fun (such as The Complete Saki).  So, right now, I've got plenty to read (even at my accelerated reading speed), and also quite a number of books waiting on the digital front.  Of course, as days and nights go by here, I think of other books that I "need" (such as the complete Faulkner, which I never bought because the Library of America edition has such small type, and the new reissues have generally unattractive covers), but was not the whole purpose of coming here to write and not to read?

Well. so it goes, so it goes.  In the meantime, just for fun, see if you can identify the books on my shelf. Give you a hint- the complete Tintin (including the "racist" Tintin in the Congo, which was refused publication in the land of the free, and which I had to order a copy from the UK); two versions of Proust's In Search of Lost Time (in english, including the contemporary version of six volumes which for copyright law cannot be released in the US until years from now, and which I have the UK version), and of course Simon van Booy's work grace the shelves.  By the way, that tan box sitting on top of the left bookshelf is The Ingmar Bergman Archives, the monumental book on the Master released by Taschen.

Have a seat. Now, get to work.

Today being Monday, the beginning of the week for those with a regular schedule, and just another day for those fortunate and unfortunates such as myself without one, I did a little rearranging of the apartment/writing studio to try and sort out a proper place to do some good work.  For the past two weeks, I have been fighting a major sense of disconnect, nostalgia (but not for New York City), jet lag, this and that and that and this.

Perhaps I have sorted out a place where to work, pictured as follows.  All that is missing is an Ipad (not pictured in the photo, as I was using it to take the photo) and the actual work itself.  Perhaps some kind of painting on the wall would be good too- so I may well take up the brush again to do some sort of calligraphic sketch.

To be continued, then.

Surrounded

A few stones' throw away from where I live, in the direction away from the several temples (and the zen mind), is the city proper with its many drinking establishments and other material ways to drop a chunk of change.   I was in the heart of it yesterday afternoon, and even I, well versed in the ways of changing identities (in the past, at least) was pulled by the magnet that was Japanese hip-hop culture- probably because it is pure escapism, and I was once one of those pretenders (back in the day when hip-hop was called rap).  Anyway, it was a fun experience, and I found out about a street festival next month which will be hip-hop themed, and I will surely report on that experience later.  But, in the meantime, I have to find some appropriate clothing- as my everyday costume of suit and tie will look rather conspicuous in that scene.

The whole point of this yakkety yak was to mention how there is a promenade of trees on Jozenji-Dori, right before the beginning or end of the city (depending on how you look at it), and it is lined with zeklova trees which are majestic.  There is something so beautiful and mysterious about standing there- as if the city does not really exist, and, honestly, it does not.  These trees echo something from the past and the future, as if nature is calling out to me again and again to give up the illusion of the present, and that Everything- every little thing in the world is in your own mind, in my own mind.

The Fall of the House of Yamada, Continued

Following the metal workshop heartbreak of the last post (read that first before you do this one- thanks!), I came back and reviewed some of the other photos I took around the area.  There was another storefront only a stone's throw away which caught my eye, a former tobacconist and I believe what may have been a restaurant/snack bar (there was no sign, but the size of it was a giveaway).  When I looked closer in the photo at the former tobacco seller's name, it was Yamada (the same as the forgotten workshop), and most likely the same owner or at least the same family.

No need to thank me for the depressing stuff.  It's my pleasure.

By the way, I will probably make my way around to knocking at the door, although a second opinion offered was that it is no longer inhabited.  I don't quite believe that, though, and I don't mean it has ghosts.  Someone's in there- although I wouldn't look into the metal workshop at night, not for a million yen- well, I probably would, but you best keep a heart doctor close at hand...

Nothing for Sale, Not Anymore.

Time and time (for Mr. Yamada)

Not sure how I missed posting something yesterday, but I blame it on the rain, which, although it brought a deep darkness onto this part of the world, filled me with absolute joy, as the sounds erased the quiet of days and nights.

Well, I have to tell you without going into detail that I had a series of three very interesting dreams, one after another over three nights, and when I woke up this morning, I felt that all was not quite right in the world.  Sometimes, you know maybe better than I do, the power of dreams as being more real than the reality of dull days and long evenings.

A few days ago, I came across a place not ten minutes away from where I live- an old style building where some of the windows were open and/or broken.  Always one who likes to snoop around, I poked my head in and I was not ready to see the beauty and sadness contained inside- a former iron workers' studio, with many of the tools and equipment still there, a clock which was not running (I checked my watch against it), layers of dust, chalk markings on the wall to indicate dimensions for work.  These alone would just evoke a sense of nostalgia and wonder.  But when I saw the grass grow in that space, greener than green, nature taking back the space from man (who must have left it, or left the earth), well, that was really a sight to behold.

The clincher?  The sign outside, barely legible- as the sun and the elements stole its soul away, too.

Breakfast but never at Tiffany's

One of the many fine traits of the Japanese, which may or may not be a positive thing depending on how one looks at it, is their unrelenting perfectionism in learning a craft and after doing so to impart their own Japanese-ness onto it.  Case in point- there is a boulangerie a few steps from my apartment, and it is very much like walking into Paris or France.  The only thing missing is a Bonjour upon arrival and an Au Revoir, Merci upon leaving- well, that, and only some of the signs are in French (and Japanese, of course).  A pain au chocolat tastes every bit as buttery and French as its over the seas counterpart, and one can imagine the experience of Parisian life and days but only with closed eyes.

Paris, my friends, is really so far away from here- even if there is a Hermes, a Cartier just ten minutes away- it is not that of Rue du Fauborg Saint-Honore or the Rue de la Paix, and could never be, and as much as I like my quaint little apartment here on the edge of the city, I would much prefer the hotel life of the Hyatt Vendome (knowing that both the Ritz and soon even the Hotel du Crillon will be undergoing renovation for two years)

Oo la la, le chic.  Forgive me for writing that, but it simply had to be done.

Ride On Into the Afternoon

Although I have made the bullet train ride from Tokyo to Sendai and back quite a number of times, this time was infinitely different.  First of all, I no longer had possession of a rail pass (which is for tourists only).  Second, which is related to my own vanity, I was not to be seated in the Green Car (i.e., first class) as I usually would be- and, actually, even that first class is now second class, as they have instituted a Gran(d) Class. but if you have ever travelled on Japanese railways, you would know that for the most part it is a smooth ride- often on time and with enough room space for the normal sized person.  And. third, this would be the ride that would take me from being Free Citizen of the World into Citizen of Sendai. Japan.  So, with a mix of emotions, fear and dread and anticipation among the top contenders, and wondering whether I should have a few stiff ones (beer. or. maybe an ice cream), I got on and rode into the late afternoon to my destiny.

It was not bad- I missed my shibori (wet towel) and complimentary drink that they serve in the Green Car. and I was sitting next to an old fellow who snored, but I had plenty fun reading one of the three 1950s-60s manga comics that I picked up in Tokyo.

step right up, young man.

peasant class, this time, "sir"?

i've arrived....the station looks as it ever does