The Night Before Kurisumasu (in Tokyo)

‘Twas the night before Kurisumasu, and out with the boss,
The salarymen were tottering, all totally sauced;
They would soon be hungover, but nobody cared,
Tomorrow they’d sleep for the first time they’d dared;
With no children to wake them as they lay in their beds,
While karaoke songs replayed in their heads;
And mama-san in her apron, and I in my suit,
She cut off the drinks since I’d run out of loot,
When out on the street there arose such a blare,
I thought a black van with loudspeakers was there.

As away to the till went the last of my cash,
Some roguish figure tore in with a crash;
The moon cast a shadow onto the floor,
As a silhouette appeared in the light through the door,
When what to my half-open eyes hoofed near,
But a scooter pulled by twelve rowdy deer;
With a mischievous driver in such a great dash,
I knew in a moment it was Santa’s rogue elf, Flash!
More horsepower than Harleys, their thundering rang,
And she sang out by shouting their traveling stage names:

Hey! Havoc! Hey Shred! Hey Pogo, Hey Led!
Now,
Thrasher! Now, Crasher! Now Reckless and Vexen!
Play,
Misfit! Play, Scarlet! Play, Rebel and Raven!
From the top of the tables! From the top of the bar!
Now play away! Play away! Play like a rock star!”
As the windows that shattered when the Concorde would fly,
An ominous sound rose that vibrated my eyes;
And then like an earthquake shaking the room,
It rattled from the walls of the little saloon;
And over the housetops the thunderous noise grew,
‘Till it could be heard through all Shinjuku

Drums boomed, bass rumbled, guitars at high gain,
A wassailing siren and her ruminant gang;
She was dressed all in leather, from her jacket to her boots,
A collar with spikes, a deerwhip and catsuit;
A guitar amp behind her was blasting feedback,
From a Matamp GT through a double-high stack.
Dark eyes gave a wink, to my skipping heartbeat
,
Her hair like black fire, as she blocked my retreat!
Her sobering mouth was drawn up in a challenge,
Dueling lead solos if I felt thus unhinged;

A golden guitar jack she held in her teeth,
I took it not wanting to cause myself grief,
Plugged it into the Gibson by Vexen’s gig-set,
And shook when I found it down-tuned five steps!
It was heavy and metal from the pick in my hand,
So I thundered a solo in front of the band;
Another wink of her eye and a twist of her wrist,
As she joined in some heavy Yuletide pitch,
Shouted the last words of an epic finale,
Then dashed off with the band into the back alley…

Just as the police arrived to restore order and peace,
And giving a salute, through the streets as they screeched;
She sang from her scooter, as her twelve conspirators led,
Away from from the bedlam and mess they all fled;
But I heard her exclaim, o’er the din of loud cheer—
“Christmas is more merry, if you leave cookies and beer!”

Father’s Day

Found your starlight shoes
By the doorstep
Where you left them
When you were here
When you were gone

Butterfly wings
Flutter beneath the moon
Starry feet dancing
As night fell
Colors left too soon
I dreamed
If I stopped breathing
Long enough
The gray might leave me
But all I found was…

The streetlight
Flickers like it knows
Abandoned magic
Spells we spoke beneath
Its dying glow
Telling me to go, now
Stillness falls… it waits
Stare long enough
The sky begins to fade
And all I found was…

Love.
It cannot catch me now
Wings have turned to dust
The wind no longer lifts them
I am… still
It’s the world that slips, slips
Slips across whole oceans
While incantations spoken
In silence between songs
Call to luminescent places
…and I pretend that’s where you are.

Magic shoes and dancing wings
All things to move through night
When dreams confined by darkened spaces
Lift my fallen star
To light the empty places

 

A Summer Rain

Upon us all, upon us all a little rain must fall.
-Robert Plant & “Jimmy” Page, The Rain Song (1973).

A few days ago, WordPress notified me that it had been ten years since my first post. It would have been nice to have had something worthwhile to write about to have marked the date. But I’m not usually inspired to sit in front of a computer during the summer. This afternoon, however, the local temperatures were just reaching into the 90s (32C), making even the jays nesting in the Japanese maple outside my back door uncomfortable.

So after hosing down the garden and filling a tray with some water as a peace offering to my avian neighbors, I ended up sitting in the shade of an old Wisteria with an iced coffee. It was a good opportunity to think about the last couple of decades.

I’ve been living here, at least part-time, for the last twenty years, ever since re-entering the US in 2004. My first place was actually a 400 square-foot rental in a complex notorious for being the center of much local… business. I had some interesting neighbors.  But the arrangement was only temporary, while the paperwork on my new house was being processed.

The town had a distinctly different vibe at that time. The year-round population was only about 2,000 people, swelling to at most 5,000 in the summers, including seasonal residents and tourists. And there still wasn’t any local mail delivery. My house was big… too big. And I owned 19-feet of coveted lakefront. Yes… really. 19-feet. And to pay the taxes for the privilege, I flew out to work in Vancouver in Canada for several days every couple of weeks. (Long story.)

Back then, my husband and I both traveled a great deal. And having accumulated a vast collection of photos from some rarely visited locations, he began posting some of them online. In 2005, a couple of Spanish entrepreneurs had developed an overlay to Google Earth called “Panoramio”, where geo-located photos could be uploaded to show a view from a particular place on the Earth.

Over time, the Pano community grew, and we actually met several fellow photo-posters during some of our travels. I even gave a camera to a young man from northern India. But Google eventually bought out Pano from its creators, and pretty much trashed it before giving up on it altogether about a decade back.

Around 2009, my husband also started communicating with people through “Gather”, which was a sort of public/private domain site where people could post articles, or just have discussions. I think it was a couple of years later when I first posted something on Gather myself, under the nom de guerre of, “Ruta Skadi”, a character from a 1997 novel by Phillip Pullman.

Gather was designed to promote discussion and interaction, encouraging writing about social, political and cultural topics. As a technical writer, I ended up posting numerous science-related articles. Often, I’d intentionally write about controversial topics. The conversation was usually intelligent and interesting, and I also found myself fascinated by the site’s passionate commenters and various “trolls”.

In 2014, however, Gather was sold to a media company that, strangely, didn’t seem to have any plans to maintain the site. Many writers had already moved on to other sites.  And in July of 2014, I made my first post here on WordPress. Over time, I’ve encountered several writers from Gather, accounting for a few among my tiny following here.

Around that same time, I also retired from my work in Vancouver.  Then I sold my old house, and downsized to the “love shack”, a little carpenter-ant infested hovel in one the oldest neighborhoods in town. And to the sounds of some squawking hatchling jays and approaching thunder, I think about all of this while sitting in the shade of the sprawling old Wisteria, the Japanese symbol of longevity, and of a connection to the past.

Eventually, this afternoon’s heat-driven thunderstorms moved clouds over the sun. The air cooled, and the heavens reached down to touch the Earth. And as the mother jay watched from one of the plum trees in the summer garden, I stood in the rain, wrapping myself in the gently crouching sky.

A Summer Rain
(inspired by Robert Plant & “Jimmy” Page)

It’s the rain of a late summer love
A season’s second chance to grow
Sheltered beneath a crouching sky
In this warmth I’ve felt before
A lingering fire beneath the snow
It isn’t hard to feel the sun, I know.

It’s the summer of my remembrances
Fleeing from a season of shadows
Of a waterfall tumbling in fear
To you I return these moments
Contentment, not so hard to recognize
Things are clear from time to time, so…

Listen,
Listen to the cool wind blow!
Sheltered from a sweltering pall
Always known the fire is not forever
Cherished the sun that set upon us
When I knew that I loved you
And I know that I love you, now.

This is a season of remembrance
A summer rain, distant thunder calls
To the wonder of old devotions
Muted fires from whetted emotions
Sheltering moments under a crouching sky
It’s just a little rain, yeah
Upon us all, a little rain should fall.

 

One Tea

 

 

 

.蝶と共に吾も七野を巡る哉
[Chō to tomoni ware mo nana no o meguru kana]
A butterfly my companion,
through seven fields
we wander.
Kobayashi Issa, (1795).

 

Among the four great Japanese “haiku masters”, Bashō, would come to be known as the most observant. But Issa is remembered as the most humane. Third among the revered poets of the tradition, alongside Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694), Yosa Buson (1716-1784), and the later, Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), Kobayashi Issa (小林一茶), was born Kobayashi Nobuyuki, on June 15, 1763.

Issa, however, would likely have refused the title of a haiku master, or “haisei” (“俳聖”, literally, “haiku saint”), which had come to describe both Bashō and Buson. Unlike his predecessors, and despite a sincere devotion to “Jōdo Shinshū” (Pure Land) Buddhism, Issa never strove for Buddhist salvation through his meditations. Rather, he believed that a merciful Buddha would bring redemption to one’s spirit, despite our human imperfections, merely by living with peace and compassion.
.花桶に蝶も聞かよ一大事
hana oke ni chô mo kiku ka yo ichi daiji
on the flower pot

does the butterfly, too
hear Buddha’s promise?
– Issa
(year unknown)

During his lifetime, Issa wrote various types of poetry in the “haiku”, “tanka”, and “haibun” forms, and also painted “haiga” (haiku paintings). As a well-known teacher of haiku in the Shinano region of Japan, Issa took on the “haigo”, or haiku penname that would become associated with his work. “Issa” (一茶),  meaning, “One Tea”. His poems tended to express his humanity, addressing both the joys and the sufferings he felt in his life.

Issa was a prolific poet. Upon his death, he left journals containing more than 22,000 haiku. They express a caring perspective toward others, even for animals.  He also voiced his joy in seeing the perspectives of children, their hopes for the future, and their places in his own life.  And he was known for an irreverent humor, sometimes poking fun at both authority figures, as well as the rigidly stratified Japanese society of his time.
.松茸にかぶれ給ひし和尚哉
matsutake ni kabure tamaishi oshô kana
a matsutake mushroom

on his head…
high priest
– Issa
(year unknown)

Much of Issa’s perspective of life might be traced all the way back to the death of his mother when Issa was just two-years old (by Western standards). While well cared for by his grandmother over the subsequent five years, he was returned to his father’s household when his father remarried. Then, his half-brother was born two years later, leaving Issa feeling estranged within his own family.

After his grandmother died when Issa was thirteen, he fell into a lonely despair. Within a year, his father sent him away to the city of Edo to find his own way in life.  Eleven years later, at the age of twenty-five, Issa became a student of the Chikua’s Nirokuan (二六庵) school of haiku. When Chikua would die just three years later, Issa briefly took on the role of the school’s master, along with the name,
一茶”, or “Issa”.

Inspired by the itinerant life of his famed predecessor, Bashō, he left the shelter of the school just a year later. Referring to his wanderings with the phrase “beggar’s world”, Issa was alluding to a life of poverty, supported only by the good will of those whom he would meet along the way.  And yet during this time, his words often conveyed the discovery of great wealth in the beauty that surrounded him.
.雉鳴て梅に乞食の世也けり
kiji naite   ume ni kojiki no yo   nari keri
pheasant singing—
it’s a plum blossom-filled
beggar’s world now!
– Issa
(1791)

Decades later, at around the age of fifty, Issa would return to his childhood home in the town of Kashiwabara in the mountainous Shinano province.  But his stepmother and half-brother refused him access to the family home, and he found himself unwelcome in the town.  Eventually, however, he was able to legally establish the inheritance of a partial ownership to his father’s property.

After a partition wall was constructed to split the house with his step-family, Issa was finally able to return to his childhood home. And a 52-year old Issa moved in to his half of the old house, along with his 28-year old bride, Kiku. Their son, Sentarō, was then born in the spring of 1816.  Issa, however, recorded that Sentarō died just 27 days later. And then again in the spring of 1818, Kiku gave birth to a daughter, Sato. But the following year, Sato contracted smallpox and also died.
.花の世は石の仏も親子哉
hana no yo wa ishi no hotoke mo oyako kana
world of blossoms–

even the stone Buddhas
parents and children
– Issa (year unknown)

Issa wrote a deeply heartfelt account of Sato’s death. “Her mother holding tightly to her body, burst into tears. At that moment, though I tried to resign myself to the knowledge that water flows past not a second time, or that blossoms, once fallen, never return to the trees.… I couldn’t break the chain of love.”

In the autumn of 1820, Kiiku again gave birth to a boy, Ishitarō. But shortly after the New Year of 1821, a despairing Kiku would find that Ishitarō had suffocated while bundled on her back. Issa mourned terribly, lamenting that he would have no celebrating descendants to greet his own spirit when it visited the earth during the Bon festival.
.あきらめて子のない鹿は鳴ぬなり
akiramete ko no nai shika wa nakinu nari
resigned
to being childless
the silent deer
– Issa
(1821)

Then, in the spring of 1822, Kiku gave birth to a third boy, Konzaburō. But in the spring of the following year, Kiku fell ill and died. And without his mother, Konzaburō died seven months later.  Issa wrote of the depths of his loneliness during that time, comparing it to the moon in the night sky, and how he wished for even the nagging of his absent wife.

This perhaps explains why Issa remarried about a year later, in 1824… briefly. The wedding to his new wife, who was named “Yuki”, was in the Fifth Month.  The divorce was in the Eighth.  The 38-year old daughter of a local samurai, her name meant, “Snow”, which seemed fitting.  She was a cold partner to the simple, old poet, and soon abandoned Issa to return to her parents’ home. Issa didn’t seem to mind.
.鬼虫も妻を乞ふやら夜の声
oni mushi mo tsuma wo kou yara yoru no koe
even the devil bug

calls for a wife…
night voices.
– Issa
(1821)

Issa married again in 1826, at around the age of 63-years. His third wife was a 32-year old village woman named Yao. And soon, she became pregnant. But during the pregnancy, Issa’s divided house burned to the ground during a fire that swept through the town.   For shelter, the couple had to live in a cold, grain-storage barn on the property.

It was as if Issa’s life was to demonstrate the Buddhist principle that all things are temporary.  All that we yearn for, that we love, that we strive to create, everything to which we become attached eventually dissolves into oblivion. Yao would give birth to a daughter, Yata, the only one of Issa’s children to survive to adulthood.  But Issa would never meet her. 

This time, Issa would die from a stroke in January of 1828 while sheltering in the barn, five-months before her birth.

Issa’s writings spoke to both the beauty and the fragility of life, and to the elusiveness of joy. But there was never a bitterness in his voice, even in those moments where he might have placed blame onto others. Issa instead presented himself merely as a human, flawed and wanting, but grateful and aware, growing older while trusting in the “Namu Amida Butsu”.

.さすが花ちるにみれんはなかりけり
sasuga hana chiru ni miren wa nakari keri
when cherry blossoms

scatter…
no regrets
– Issa
(unknown year)

 

 

Sakura Fubuki

春風の花を散らすと見る夢は覚めても胸のさわぐ鳴けり
Saigyō Hōshi (西行法師), 1118 – March 23, 1190.
[My translation.]
Spring breeze
Scattering flowers
Seen in my dreams
And though I awaken, in my chest
A rustling sound

It’s “sakura” (cherry blossom) season in Japan, and a friend in Tokyo just sent me some photos of the somewhat late bloom this year.  This weekend, I imagine there are crowds in the parks engaged in “hanami”, flower-viewing fueled by much celebratory public drinking.  And tonight’s large, waning-gibbous moon will keep people out late into the night, strolling under the magnificent blossoms of cherry lined streets.

As with “kendō” (the way of the sword), kyūdō (the way of the bow), and “judō “ (the way of gentleness), “kadō” (華道) is the “way of the flower”. The term describes a typically disciplined Japanese approach to addressing the aesthetics of flowers dating back to Japan’s Heian period (794-1185).

“Hanakotoba” (“花言葉”, literally: “flower-word-leaf”) is a Japanese term referring to the language of flowers. This isn’t something unique to Japanese culture. “Floriography”, or the attribution of meanings to various flowers has been practiced by cultures throughout the world for thousands of years. But many Japanese symbolisms associated with flowers are unique, and deeply woven into the Japanese culture.

In a general example from the formal part of some Japanese funerals, there is a tradition of each person who offers a prayer for the deceased placing flowers with the body. The great mass of beautiful flowers which ends up surrounding the person who has died, including those from the funeral arrangement, symbolize a particular Mahayana Buddhist imagery of “paradise”.

Even the deaths of the flowers themselves accord specific terms to describe the manners in which they pass. “Sakura”, or cherry blossoms famously “fall” (“chiru”) in what may be a “sakura fubuki”, or a “cherry blossom snow-storm”. Plum blossoms, however, “spill” (“koboreru”) from their trees, evoking a sense of something more like a waterfall. Chrysanthemums “flutter” (“mau”), while camellias merely “drop” (“ochiru”), peonies “crumble” (“kuzureru”), and morning glories “wither” (“shibomu”).

In each case, there’s a particular image and feeling associated with the passing of the flower. The falling of cherry blossoms evokes a sense of the briefness of beauty in a life’s “spring season”. Chrysanthemums, or “kiku” in Japanese, have noble connotations, long appearing on the Japanese Imperial Family crest. White chrysanthemums further imply purity and truth. Consequently, their fluttering appeals to a feeling of autumn and a sense of grief at their passing, and they are commonly used to represent this in funerals.

Ikebana” is the traditional Japanese art of flower arrangement that emerged from kadō. It’s considered one of the three classical Japanese high-arts, alongside “kōdō” (incense discernment) and “chadō” (tea preparation and ceremony). Originally, ikebana were offerings of flowers made at altars. But in the 16th-century, they began to decorate spaces in traditional “tatami” rooms within Japanese homes, conveying seasonal meanings.

Less formally, messages may also be sent via various flowers and their colors.  For example, receiving red carnations is an expression of familial love.  However, white carnations express condolences, while red camellias symbolize a noble death. Receiving a white gardenia suggests a secret admirer.  But watch out if you receive an orange lily, as that implies vengeance.  And red spider lilies have an association with graves, death, and misfortune.

Cherry blossoms, or “Sakura”, however, hold a special significance in Japanese culture.  With a fleeting but extraordinarily beautiful period of bloom, their fragile flowers are a reminder of the temporary nature of things in a concept known as, “mono no aware”. Their windblown petals soon fall to cover the earth in a bittersweet remembrance of pink snow, an admonition to notice and to cherish the beauty in each moment of a brief existence.

.

Satō Norikiyo (佐藤義清) was born to nobility in Kyoto in 1118, during a time of shifting power in Japan. But at the age of 22, he became a monk and later took the pen name “Saigyō Hōshi”, meaning “Western Journey Priest”, in reference to the “Western Paradise” of the Amida Buddha. He spent much of his life alone near Mount Yoshino, a significant religious destination located in the Nara Prefecture that’s known for its cherry blossoms.

Saigyō’s poems were in the style of “Renga”, single lines with a 5-7-5-7-7 pattern of “moras”. Many of his writings centered on the Japanese concepts of mono no aware, and “wabi-sabi” (the simple beauty of imperfection).  He particularly admired the spring cherry blossoms in this regard, lamenting that their only flaw was in the crowds they attracted. As an old man, it was his desire to die under their flowers, a wish apparently granted during his early seventies one spring day in late March of 1185.

願はくは 花の下にて 春死なむ その如月の 望月のころ
[My translation]
A wish that
Beneath the blossoms
To die in spring
That month of changing clothes
Around a full moon.

Post Script: This post reminded me of a particular photo by the Polish travel, documentary and street photographer, Maciej Dakowicz.  In 2004 and 2005, he documented the lives of “trash-pickers” on the Steung Meanchey dump in Phnom Penh.  I won’t reproduce the photo here, but it’s the eleventh down on this page… evidence that one can find beauty anywhere.

The Ninth Wave

The sea has neither meaning, nor pity.
-Anton Chekhov, Gusev (1890).

The Ninth Wave (Russian: Девятый вал, Dyevyatiy val), Ivan Aivazovsky, 1850.

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,
Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep
And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged
Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame:
Idylls of the King: The coming of Arthur, by Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)


During the years of my youth in coastal California, I found some comfort in the ocean.  The waves that rumbled ashore lured me into the water, and I learned to dance with them… if in a perhaps heavy-footed way.  Being young and immortal, however, there was an infinite potential for becoming a more understanding partner.  So to the chagrin of the local lifeguards, the risks were to me merely opportunities.  But that was a long time ago.

Years later, during the decade that I worked in Vancouver, I also began to experiment with a sea kayak.  In my imagination, I saw myself some day paddling with dolphins or exploring a remote coastline.  But the reality that we humans are mere intruders into the sea hit me one day, almost literally.  Surprised from behind by the wake of a passing ship in the Upper Burrard Inlet, I found myself unexpectedly cast into a freezing sea.  I wasn’t really in any serious danger; but the experience was nevertheless sobering.

 

The Great Wave Off Kanagawa” (神奈川沖浪裏), by the Japanese Ukiyo-e woodblock artist, Katsushika Hokusai, was created some time between 1830 and 1832.  Among a series of thirty-six views of Mount Fuji, it depicts a great wave descending upon three oshiokuri-bune (押送船), fast fishing-trade boats of Japan’s Edo period.  In the background, the mountain sits motionless, a distant god as the wave’s claw-like tendrils descend upon the hapless mariners.

At times, I’ve studied Hokusai’s frozen moment in wondering.  What compelled such a journey?  What are they carrying, perhaps tuna or squid, for trade, or merely enough to feed their families?   Who are they… fathers, sons, husbands?  Where are they from, and what are their stories?  And how many of the scene’s crew and twenty-four bracing oarsmen, some already swallowed by the sea, will return to their homes to tell the story?  I wonder if even Hokusai knew.

“The Great Wave…” is a typically Japanese portrayal of human fragility.  The huddled forms of humanity who man the boats are anonymous, mere smoldering specks of life at the mercy of an otherwise uncaring universe.  Even the gods stand by, indifferent to the stories forever erased in an event frozen onto an inked page.  And a moment by itself has no past… no future.

“The Ninth Wave” is different.

Aivazovsky’s work reflects an aftermath; the ship has already wrecked.  So there is a story to these lives, framed within an irresistible sea of time.  And yet, there is humanity in his work.  While it at once depicts the inevitable pain of living, it appeals also to something greater than simply one’s destiny.

In the tradition of sailors encountering storms at sea, it is the “ninth wave” that is the great one, the most powerful, the most destructive, the final arbiter.  As Aivazovsky’s “Great Wave” approaches, we see the survivors of those preceding, lesser forces, ones that have already cast them into the sea.  The few remaining souls not yet lost grasp desperately to the last pieces of some shattered sanctuary.

One man clings to the memory of another.  Another man reaches toward a past, submerged forever into the darkened waters.  Two more simply turn their backs, looking instead upon the last as though he is mad.  Only a single man has the courage to watch as the great wave rises.

Lashed to the ship’s mast, its very heart, this lone soul holds some proclaiming form to the sky.  He lives in the moment, experiences it, confirms his destiny as if in the acknowledging hands of some higher power, so that even the storm and the sea itself can’t quite blot out the morning sun’s call to hope.

  • Side two of the 1985 album, “Hounds Of Love”, consists of a seven-track series called, “The Ninth Wave”.  The tracks follow the theme of a person whose thoughts and dreams emerge from being utterly alone in the sea through the night. “And Dream of Sheep” is the first track.  In a 1987 interview (apparently with herself), Kate Bush said of music:

    Some of the most beautiful music ever was written for God, for a loved one, in a state of grief, sorrow, suppression–it seems to be an expression from a person on a higher level…? I’m not sure I understand it at all, but music seems to come out of people when very little else can.

    And Dream of Sheep
    by Kate Bush

    Little light shining
    Little light will guide them to me
    My face is all lit up
    My face is all lit up
    If they find me racing white horses
    They’ll not take me for a buoy
    Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep

    Oh I’ll wake up to any sound of engines
    Every gull a seeking craft
    I can’t keep my eyes open
    Wish I had my radio
    I’d tune into some friendly voices
    Talking ’bout stupid things
    I can’t be left to my imagination
    Let me be weak, let me sleep and dream of sheep

    Ooh, their breath is warm
    And they smell like sleep
    And they say they take me home
    Like poppies, heavy with seed
    They take me deeper and deeper

無き曲 — Naki Kyoku…


ご注意ください

本日の公演は非常に大きな音量で行われます。
気分が悪くなられた場合は、無理せずフロア外
に出て、適度に休みを取りながらご覧下さい

(More coherent English translation…)
Please be careful
Today’s performance will be conducted at a very high volume.  If you are feeling unwell, it is okay to leave the floor and take an occasional rest.

[Link:”Feedbacker“, performed at the original “Liquid Room” in Tokyo.]

“Boris” (ボリス, Borisu) is a three-member, Japanese experimental band formed in Tokyo in 1992. In the almost thirty years since, they’ve created a vast collection of recordings while touring regularly in Asia, Europe, Australia and North America.

Percussionist, Atsuo Mizuno, rhythm-guitarist/bassist, Takeshi Otani, and the rather opaque lead-guitarist/keyboardist, “Wata”, comprise Boris.  Each plays off the others, almost like jazz musicians.  All occasionally contribute their own, distinctive vocals to music that’s, intentionally, difficult to pigeonhole. But I think it fair to say that much emerges directly from the deeper Japanese cultural experience underlying the more superficial image that most Westerners see.

If that underlying Japanese philosophical perspective had been created by a contemporary Western philosopher, it would have been Nietzsche. There’s an old Japanese parable about a young samurai expressing his fear of death, whereupon his mother asks him, “Then what will you make of the moments after your arm has been severed?” The absolute value of a life is determined in its comparison with the nothingness of void. But that also implies a willingness to peer into its emptiness.

The Japanese call this aesthetic of the deep and mysterious vastness of an unknowable universe into which everything disappears, “yūgen” (幽玄).  And while Nietzsche may have been overtly critical of religion, he did also express an understanding of its place as a shield with which the human psyche protects itself from such an overwhelming perspective.

We reflexively look away from both mortality and our own insignificance in an otherwise indifferent universe.  But the Japanese Buddhist tradition is to form a sort of peace with the fear it elicits by also acknowledging its profound, if incomprehensible beauty.  It’s an acceptance of human suffering, and not as an allusion to another world. It’s about this world, and this experience.

The second time I saw Boris, it was in Tokyo’s seedy Kabukichō, red-light district, at a larger, upstairs “live house” accessed via several narrow flights of stairs. I could hear the approaching tempest as it filtered down the passage, arriving late to a heavy, droning, viscerally loud performance.

About a quarter of an audience of perhaps a hundred people was either sitting or laying silently on the floor directly in front of the stage. It took me awhile to realize that they were processing personal, psychedelic experiences of a long piece appropriately titled, “Flood”. The heavy lament of a deeply down-tuned guitar, rumbling bass, and stormy rhythms passed through a barrage of vintage electronics and massive amplifiers before rolling off the stage in ever greater waves.  I stood in the back, overwhelmed by the resonating sensation.

It was well into the 37-minute piece when Takeshi’s voice finally rendered the song’s only lyrics (translated from Japanese)…

Judged silent earth
From a break in the heavy clouds
Light shines and wraps around
Just flows down
Swells and pours into the curved shore
Overflowing light
Enveloping
A rainbow spans the vast water
Begins a new sky in the distance

In the Osaka born author, Mieko Kawakami’s recently translated-to-English, 2009, “ヘヴン” (“Heaven”), she describes the interactions of two bullied adolescents.  Perhaps lost in its Westernized translation is that in her native “Osaka-ben” Japanese, Kawakami’s writing is as a series of shadowed poems conveying the Japanese sense of surrender to destiny through the cultural imagery it elicits.

In a society where ethical norms emerge from the overwhelming force of group cohesion, Kawakami’s main characters find solace in resigned martyrdom. Individual liberation emerges only through an acceptance of nihilism, either in self-destruction, or by simply not caring about the pain anymore. This is a familiar strain to the Japanese, where the story merely ends without that imagined glimmer of redemption demanded by Western readers.  And it’s an ancient theme.

The Heian Lady-in-Waiting, “Murasaki Shikibu” (her real name lost to history), wrote, The Tale of Genji (源氏物語, Genji monogatari), perhaps the world’s first literary novel, a thousand years before Kawakami. In Shikibu’s story, the hero’s beloved Murasaki was almost certainly a reflection of the author herself. Resigned to existence as the product of a privileged, but isolating courtly tradition, she ultimately dies never having come to a realization of her own life. And when her loss finally compels Genji to contemplate the fleeting nature of life itself, the subsequent chapter, “Vanished into the Clouds”, is simply left blank.

“無き曲” (“Naki Kyoku”), is the culturally untranslatable title to a Boris piece written as a part of a soundtrack to a non-existent film.  The term refers to a Japanese philosophy derived from “Nō” (), a form of traditional Japanese drama dating back to the 14th-century.  Naki Kyoku is the “unsung song”, “music without music”, or the “missing piece”… Shikibu’s vanishing into clouds.

After moving from Thailand to Japan in 2002, initially to help take care of my father’s affairs after his death, I’d found myself more-or-less stuck. The result was an awkward immersion into the murky waters of the Japanese cultural aesthetic while I settled-in for an indefinite stay.

Thailand and Cambodia during the turn of the millennium and the events surrounding “9-11” had left me with a perspective of the world and of what gives something “value” very different from that typical of life in the United States. In the US, we cling to faith and possessions, and to the grand illusions of personal power and independence. But Japan would remind me of the abyss beneath that fragile bridge of ephemeral distractions.

Boris developed in Japan’s “live house” sub-culture. These are small music venues, from basement dives to a handful of halls accommodating at most 2,000 people. Scattered throughout Japan’s larger cities, they’re especially common in Tokyo and Osaka, providing an alternative to Japan’s saccharin-sweet, industrialized pop-cultural scene. The first time I heard Boris was in 2002, in the basement of a yakitori shop just across the street from a train station in Tokyo’s Koenji district.

The proprietor explained that the intermittent rumbling beneath my feet was due to the space below being used for music in the afternoons. And that particular afternoon’s musicians were apparently rather… seismic. A customer then mentioned that an entrance could be found around the back of the building, it’s inconspicuously coded signage an electrical insulator mounted above the door, next to a small warning plaque reading “20,000v”.

Descending steeply along a narrow flight of stairs, the fee for passage into the venue was a token drink cover for something from an unattended bar in one corner. Probably thirty or forty people packed into a space not much larger than that of a suburban American living room. The walls and ceiling including their exposed joists and plumbing were all painted a flat black, giving the whole place a coal-tinted industrial look.

Most everyone was pushed up against some invisible boundary that marked the “stage”, where a small, unassuming and expressionless woman about my age created a massively dark, reverberating and hypnotic melody from her guitar while a rolling-thunder of bass and percussion kept time to some unsettled rhythm.  Oddly, I understood.  These musicians were inviting their audience to peer into an auditory rendering of yūgen, a moment lost in a darkly visceral experience, that of staring into the depths of a vast, impenetrable void at the edge of an ephemeral moment of existence.

Feedbacker part II Boris
(translated from Japanese)
Anguish leaves a beautiful mark
appeared in yesterday’s dream
by a flash of light
touching

End of life
Everything that begins, turns

Imports

Supposedly, about 20%
are, or were
positive right now.
So the schools are closed,
the local mid and high, 
…though I understand
the elementary
still holds out, “essential!

But to be honest,
I feel like people here
have given up.
Smiles and greetings
smothered into empty spaces,
hidden under fear
and masks of normalcy.

Post long weekend visit,
my husband’s back to toiling
in the land of absent
Sunday beer.
So I run through town,
breathing deeply
five or six
times each week,
wondering if I will end up getting it,
despite the nights alone.

I don’t know how much
the locals traveled,
sharing bread or love 
over the long weekend.
But from the number of visitors
who crossed the divide,
I don’t think it so much matters.

We import just about everything here.


Adapted from a comment I left elsewhere in this lonely place.  Going back and re-reading it and the thoughtful response it received said something profound to me…

The lines from ‘The Green Mile’ just popped into my head, not just from COVID but also the political situation:

‘I’m tired, boss….Mostly, I’m tired of people being ugly to each other. I’m tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world…every day. There’s too much of it. It’s like pieces of glass in my head…all the time. Can you understand?’

Still, we persist.

I do understand.

Because You Were Mine

Hushed in goodbyes
As rain, sheltered in a fading light
Searching with eyes closed
In the dark of a dying fire
What words cannot convey
To half-words

Surrendered to the ghosts of wine
Medicine dulls the darkness for a time
Jasmine nursing a promise
Flower floating on the wind

Tell me why the waters rising
Used to bring me things
That now they keep
Close to someone
Like me, like me

Wind in yielding golden trees
Pressing seas, and tangled strings
Lead to these uncertain things
Another life again, again

Looking toward a Western sky
In a dream I know
I’ll never know
One light hand covers the other hand
Over again, I shouldn’t cry
For another man who doesn’t know
What he’s done

Surrendered to the light forgotten
Embers dim the darkness for a time
Jasmine nursing a promise
Flower floating on the current

Tell me why the waters rising
Wash away the things
That now you keep
For someone else
Like me, like me

Snow upon the winter trees
Across the seas, with golden rings
All imagined promised things
Another life again, again

Hushed goodbye
No rain, sheltered among half-souls
Seeing me with eyes closed
In the light of a dying fire
What tears cannot convey
To half-tears


Image: From the Japanese film, Beyond the Blood, 2012.

Doing more editor clearing, these are lyrics from something I was working on back in October of ’17 while I had access to recording some percussion.  I’d have to go back and reteach myself the progression to play it, but the music was slow, downtuned minor, used a lot of delay, and was increasingly loud.  I don’t usually sing anymore, and never managed a good enough recording to leave a public clip.

The Backstory: While living in northern Thailand around the turn of the millennium, I met several women who were cautiously waiting for a latest foreign “boyfriend” to take them away.  Many had children… a contemporary Madame Butterfly, buoyed through difficulty by dreams of imagined lives in the West or in Europe.  Broken English descriptions told of things I knew didn’t actually exist.  But my limited Thai didn’t allow for a properly metered response, so I always kept my thoughts to myself.  Regardless, I think most knew in their hearts, even if they couldn’t admit it to themselves, that they had been abandoned.

Izumi Shikibu, The Floating Lady

Among the Japanese literary “Thirty-Six Immortals of Poetry” is the poet, Izumi Shikibu (和泉式部), also called, “The Floating Lady” (浮かれ女, “ukareme).  Shikibu was probably born around 976AD, during the mid “Heian period” (794 to 1185 ).

“Heian” (平安) is Japanese for “peace” or “tranquility”, and the period began after the Fujiwara clan gained control of the Imperial House of Japan.  It is commonly considered the last classical period of Japanese history, and its start is marked by the movement of the country’s capital from Nara to Heian-jo, or what is now the city of Kyōto.

During this time, Chinese cultural influences reached a peak in Japan, introducing Buddhist and Taoist thought and Chinese arts into Japanese culture. As a result, the period is known as a time when the imperial court produced what are considered to be among the nation’s greatest arts, literary works, and poetry.

It was within this environment that Izumi Shikibu was born the daughter of the Governor of Ecjizen, Oe no Masamune, and his wife, Taira no Yasuhira, who was herself the daughter of the governor of Etchu. Aside from her birth into a family of bureaucrats serving the Fujiwara court, little is actually known of Izumi Shikibu’s life. Even her name is derived via Heian tradition from her husband’s role as the governor of Izumi province, and her father’s title of “shikibu”, an official in charge of court ceremonies.

This was an era of arranged marriages, where men of wealth could have several wives or mistresses. However, women were expected to remain faithful to their families.  So after a series of affairs within the court, Shikibu was probably compelled by her family to become the wife of Tachibana no Michisada at the age of twenty.  Seventeen-years her senior, he would give her the sobriquet of, The Floating Lady, in reference to her outgoing and sociable personality.

In 997, Shikibu gave birth to a daughter, Koshikibu no Naishi, who would herself become known as a poet.  Then in 999, Michisada was appointed Governor of Izumi, and Shikibu traveled with him to the province near modern day Osaka.

Shikibu was unhappy with life in Izumi, and soon returned alone to the capital.  And some time thereafter, she began an affair with Prince Tametaka (為敬皇子). The affair ultimately caused her to be disowned by her parents… and unsurprisingly, divorced by her husband.  But after only a year, Tametaka fell ill and died.

The “Eiga Monogatari” (The Story of Splendor), a record of the life of Fujiwara no Michinaga, implied that Tametaka’s illness and death were due to his “continual nocturnal escapades.Shikibu, nevertheless, mourned Tametaka’s death… while starting a relationship with his half brother, Prince Atsumichi (敦道皇子).

Accompanying the somewhat younger prince to Imperial Court events and functions, Shikibu became the center of much court gossip.  When Shikibu eventually moved into the prince’s home, his primary wife departed in a rage.  It was during this period when Izumi Shikibu wrote the diary that came to be known as, “Izumi Shikibu Nikki”.  Written in the third-person, it contains over one-hundred poems in distinctly Japanese styles.

Shikibu’s relationship with Atsumichi would last for about four-years, until Atsumichi’s death at the age of 27 in 1007.  Some time after, Shikibu joined the court of Fujiwara no Shōshi, who was the daughter of Fujiwara no Michinaga, and the consort of the Emperor Ichijō.  While there, she would marry Fujiwara no Yasumasa, a famed military commander whom she accompanied to his posting in Tango Province on the Sea of Japan.

Shikibu and Yasumasa would remain together until Shikibu’s death, despite Shikibu having had several apparent affairs during their marriage.  Nothing is known of when Shikibu died, except that she outlived her daughter who died during childbirth in 1025, that her last known poem was written in 1027, and that she may have written a letter as late as 1033.

Izumi Shikibu Nikki is today considered among the principal works of Japanese poetry from the Heian court.  Shikibu’s poetic autobiography, Izumi Shikibu Shū, passed down in several versions containing from 647 to 902 poems, is also considered the single most prominent work by any individual poet of the Heian-period.

There is some suggestion in subsequent Japanese literature that Shikibu spent her final few years devoted to an ascetic Buddhist life. But her writings allude to many lovers and to a life of passion, once commenting, “my very eyes feel amorous.” And they also contain momentary reflections on loneliness, abandonment, and laments for those who preceded her in death. Together, these reveal insights into the passionate heart of a woman who was both an unhesitating and independent spirit, and yet very much the cultural product of her own era in Japanese history.

Poems by Izumi Shikibu from: The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Onono Komachi and Izumi ShikibuWomen of the Ancient Court of Japan, translated by Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Aratani (1990).

 

秋までの命も知らず春の野に萩の古枝をやくとやくかな

aki made no
inoti mo sirazu
Faru no no ni
Fagi no Furune wo
yaku to yaku kana

Into the Autumn
Will life last? I know not!
So in Spring’s fields
Old bush clover’s growth
Will I devote myself to burning.

 

君こふる心はちゞに碎くれど一もうせぬ物にぞありける

kimi koFuru
kokoro Fa tidi ni
kudakuredo
Fitotu mo usenu
mono ni zo arikeru

In love with you
My heart has many
Worries, yet
Not a single one
Would I be without.

 

我といかでつれなくなりて心みむつらき人こそ忘れ難けれ

ware to ikade
turenakunarite
kokoro mimu
turaki Fito koso
wasuregatakere

Somehow I
Would become hard-hearted-
Give it a try!
Even a heartless man
Is impossible to forget.

 

*Written while watching her grandchildren upon the death of her daughter in 1025:
とゞめおきて誰をあはれと思ふらん子はまさるらん子はまさりけり

todome okite
tare wo aFare to
omoFuran
ko Fa masaruran
ko Fa masarikeri

Left behind,
Who, fondly, do
You think upon, I wonder.
Worse for the children, perhaps.
Worst to lose my child.

 

夕暮は物ぞ悲しき鐘の音をあすも聞べき身とし知らねば

yuFugure Fa
mono zo kanasiki
kane no woto
asu mo kikubeki
mi to si siraneba

Evening is
Most sad;
For the bell tolls-
And if I’ll hear it on the morrow
I know not.

 

立ちのぼる煙につけて思ふかないつまた我を人のかく見ん

tatinoboru
keburi ni tukete
omoFu kana
itu mata ware wo
Fito no kaku min

Rising to the skies
With the smoke I send
My thoughts:
Sometime hence I
Will appear to folk like this.