Of Ghosts & Spirits

In 1894, Houghton Mifflin & Co published Lafcadio Hearn’s two volume work, Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan. Hearn had arrived in Japan four years earlier, at the age of 40, commissioned as a newspaper correspondent. This commission was very soon broken off, but that was of little concern to a man who had found both a home and his greatest inspiration. He lived the remainder of his years in Japan, marrying a Japanese, taking the name Koizumi Yagumo and becoming a naturalized citizen of the country.

It is through Lafcadio Hearn’s writings that most Westerners of earlier years were introduced to things Japanese. Easy now to accuse Hearn of romanticizing Japan, exaggerating the exotic, but his descriptions were among the first impressions of pre-industrial Japan offered to the outside world. Another writer-adventurer, Pierre Loti did much the same sort of thing a few years earlier, only with an even greater degree of exoticism.

Hearn’s years in Japan make and interesting study, especially for the gradual evolution of feeling for his adopted country. At the time of his death things were perhaps not as rosy as they once were. But to this day he remains an almost-hero to Japanese of an older generation, and signs of his influence linger in many, many places.

Among my books here in Florida—most shipped from Japan—is a two-volume first edition set of Hearn’s Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan. Some of the books in my shelves were obtained for their value as first editions, signed or otherwise. In relation to that I looked up something on the web this morning about Hearn’s books. That got me thinking about the man and his experience in late 19th, early 20th century Japan.

My own first experience in Japan, though ninety years after Hearn, is perfectly described on page one of Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan… ‘The first charm of Japan is intangible and volatile as a perfume.’ Short and dead on target. From my own first days in Japan I understand how accurate the writer is in that description.

Hearn completed Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan while a teacher at a middle school in Kyushu. He later taught English literature at famed Tokyo University, but left under a cloud when administrators calculated his salary based upon his Japanese citizenship. This bothered Hearn as he knew other ‘visiting’ Western teachers on the faculty were receiving much more. His final post was as a professor at Waseda University, where he remained until his death.

During his years in Japan Hearn published fourteen books, most of them dealing with topics best described by the title of a 1902 book, Kottô: Being Japanese Curios, with Sundry Cobwebs. From early age Hearn was fascinated by the unconventional and the outlandish. Following this line, his writings tend to hover around such things as ghosts, spirits and fairy tales. From this world of the supernatural the writer set a tone that colored many of his pages. Perhaps the reason he has been accused of exaggeration, of romanticizing Japan.

Hard for me to recommend that someone run out and buy a book by Lafcadio Hearn, but should you stumble upon an old soy sauce stained copy of something by him in a yard sale or thrift shop, it would be worth taking home for that occasional afternoon or evening when exotic calls your name.

Coloring Outside the Lines

Lines for his most recent exhibition began forming days before the opening. Only minutes after the gallery doors opened, all thirty-three paintings on exhibit were sold. That brought his earnings to $285,400. There is currently a waiting list of 2000 people interested in buying his work. The painter, Kieron Williamson celebrated his 8th birthday on August 4.

It all started in 2008 on a family vacation to Cornwall, southwest of London, when Kieron asked his parents for a piece of paper so he could draw the pretty scenery. According to his mother, the boy’s first pictures were typically child-like, but he showed concentration and a devotion to practice, which surprised her. It was this that encouraged mother and father to enroll the boy in art classes. Obviously, there’s been no looking back.

Instructors quickly noticed Kieron’s rare ability for seeing and mixing color. He began with watercolors, but didn’t shy from different media and moved on to acrylics and then oil. A short look at two or three of the young painter’s landscapes show that his sense of perspective, and of shading are both that of a much more mature painter. But then we recall that Mozart and Picasso were child geniuses.

People often compare Kieron’s work to greats like Monet and Picasso, but ask master Williamson and he’ll tell you that he likens his painting to that of British impressionist Edward Seago. Compare the two and you might see a similarity in style.

2G2BT

Don Winslow has written thirteen novels, is the winner of one Shamus Award, nominee for an Edgar Award, and still remains unrecognized by too many readers. His absence from that superstar circle of writers like Lee Child, Michael Connelly and Robert Crais is something of a mystery. Possible that his refusal to ease up on the visceral reality of life in and around the drug cartels has prevented his rise to the top. Let us hope that Janet Maslin was right in her New York Times review of Winslow’s last book, Savages when she called the book, ‘…one that will jolt Mr Winslow into a different league.’

To my way of thinking, Don Winslow has always been in a different league, and one not an inch removed from perennial bestsellers like Connelly and Crais, both like Winslow, chroniclers of the southern California crime scene.

Published only three weeks ago, Winslow’s new book, Savages, is a hip-hop cool story of bad boys in southern California and hard to put down. The writer has a strong grip on the political and cultural history of the drug trade along the California-Mexico border, and you never for a moment doubt he knows of what he writes. The amazing thing about a new Winslow book is that you never know what style is going to color his story, frame his characters. From book to book his style changes. The Dawn Patrol (2009) is not like the earlier 2006 novel, The Power of the Dog, and neither is like the new book, Savages. His style, if nothing else is mercurial. At the same time you can be certain that some things won’t change: storytelling, diamond sharp characterizations, and the use of plot twists to keep the reader on edge.

But the style, language and dialogue of Savages deserves most of the praise. This time he has given us a southern California idiom that crackles with character and the stamp of now, today. While it is ultra-cool, it is also remarkable for its economy. Why use a sentence full of words when three capital letters and a number tell it all—2G2BT. And this is but a convenient example of the writer’s economy of expression. His short haiku-like paragraphs are a lesson in spare, lean prose rich enough to eat with a spoon.

Anti-heroes Ben and Chon are young so-cal dudes, developer-suppliers of high quality hydroponic weed, running their business out of Laguna Beach, CA. Their customer base is rock solid, and along with their girlfriend O (Ophelia) they live a good life. Ben, a Berkeley grad spends most of his time funding philanthropic projects in Africa and Southeast Asia. Chon is a school dropout, Navy Seal, ex-mercenary with two tours in Afghanistan. Ben handles the business, Chon handles the bad guys who put their fingers where they shouldn’t. But the bad guys—a Mexican drug cartel— want in, and to make sure Ben and Chon understand the options, they kidnap the girlfriend, O. Heads roll, bullets fly and blood spatters on the way to a solution, and you don’t want to miss a word of it.

Not Quite Pinocchio

Today’s feature is another little curio that has followed me from place to place, always there, always peeping out from a nook, a sort of household hanger-on and watchdog for that around him. A ghoulish looking fellow, with his white body, red fingernails and shortage of top hair. But puppets don’t always get to look like Johnny Depp.

I suppose at one time the puppet master had a wardrobe for his little man on strings, and dressed him up for whatever the repertory of shows called for. Perhaps he traveled around to different villages presenting his shows to the children. Or perhaps he performed at festivals and on holidays. It’s next to impossible for me to say with any veracity what the particulars are regarding the puppet’s history. I bought it from an old man sitting beside a cart piled with bits of this and that on a back alley somewhere in Bangkok. An odd, battered wooden puppet, white and ugly with body paint musculature and red red lips. No conversation between us; a gesture or two, a spread of fingers telling the price, and for the equivalent of a dollar or two the puppet was mine. There is not a mark, a sign or any hint on the puppet to suggest a history. It’s all in my head, and colored with the ribbon and fluff of imagination.

From the time I first brought it home, the puppet has lounged in one of its several poses somewhere around the house, moving about as I imagine it would were those wooden arms and legs real. I like to imagine it has conversations with its household brothers and sisters, chatting with the toaster about the smell of eggplant, and scolding the heavy book for slipping and knocking over a bottle of ink.

The photos here show the not quite Pinocchio doing his duty and guarding the fruit, hanging out with a bottle of Herbin 1670 and enjoying some downtime in a quiet corner.

An interesting fellow.

The Water’s Edge

Living where I do, smack on the southeastern edge of the USA, sometimes the natural wonders of my front yard get overlooked and lost in the passing days and weeks. Most days here are sun-drenched, idyllic and colored by a wealth of seashore biology. Still, it’s easy to grow blasé and take it all for granted. But every now and then a wake up call opens my eyes afresh to the miracle of life along the ocean’s shore, and once more I stop to examine a small thing or two of beauty so special to my environment.

Walking the same stretch of white sand beach early every morning will over time blot out many of the details along that path. Oftentimes, eyes become set on the sand under your feet, and things outside that focus get fuzzy and indistinct. Surely not the best way to appreciate the blessing of water, sky and life that throbs all around you. It is after all, not a treadmill inside a walled room. And so I try to jerk myself out of those times when the ocean surroundings are lost to my inward focused reverie.

The sun was behind thick clouds when I began my walk this morning, and judging from the thin and watery light leaking from those clouds, you might have thought it earlier and the sun not yet over the horizon. But before I had covered half a mile, suddenly the sky did one of those Hollywood things with rays of sunlight bursting forth like the birth of a miracle. There must have been others like myself who were brought to a standstill, unable to ignore the play of light on clouds and ocean. The attached photo offers little more than a weak reflection of that splendid sight.

I was still thinking about that sunlight when my eye caught an odd shape just at the water’s edge. Dead fish, crabs, jellyfish and even the rare bird carcass are not unusual along this beach, but I was surprised by the sight of a baby hammerhead shark not long dead. This was a first for me, and I didn’t hesitate to examine the shark with a finger. The flesh was still soft and moist, which led me to think it was only recently dead. The body appeared to be undamaged and I wondered if it had been sick, or perhaps stranded when swimming too close to shore. Hammerhead sharks characteristically like warm shallow water—or so the book says.

You would think the sunlight and then the shark enough for one morning, but it wasn’t over yet. On the second half of my walk, I came upon five or six others stopped and looking intently at the sand about ten feet above the surf line. As I approached, I sort of expected to see something dead on the beach. Far from it. The attraction was a newly hatched sea turtle making his dash for the water. The nest was higher up the beach, and the tracks showed it was only one baby turtle from a nest of probably about 100 eggs. The predicted hatching window posted on the nest made it clear this one turtle was an early hatchling. Had the people not been gathered to watch, the turtle would have been savaged and eaten by a dozen or so gulls waiting at a short distance. But the turtle made it through his dangerous gauntlet and disappeared beneath the waves. Hopefully, he is now on his way to an offshore haven.

Not far from the end of my walk I came upon three snowy egrets looking for breakfast in the shallow water. These birds are not unusual in these parts, but you don’t often see three of them together. They appear to be solitary birds. I watched a child chase one of the birds for fifteen minutes, sure he was going to catch it. The egret seemed to laugh at the boy’s futile attempts, dodging away casually each time his inept stalker made a dash.

Sadie

We reached Sadie’s house in a downpour of rain. Great missiles of water striking at everything in a blinding torrent. Set back a ways on a green stretch of lawn empty of trees but clouded by sheets of rain, we could barely make out the house. Noise on the car roof was all but deafening, and for several minutes we sat frozen in the car, awed at the fury of something that looked like a monsoon plowing through the tropics. Windshield wipers were useless, adding more noise than visibility. Stranded behind rain frosted glass, there was a feeling of relief at being in a driveway and no longer on a blind street among moving cars. We sat in the car, waiting like temporary captives under the heavy drumming of Louisiana rain.

Sadie was our Aunt Sadie, living by herself in a big house, her husband passed on some years before and her ten children grown and scattered around the state. I was looking forward to spending some time with her, my memories of her full of laughter. According to Sadie, the youngest boy, Robert used to give her a hotfoot with Blue Diamond kitchen matches whenever she fell asleep on the sofa. Somewhere in the old stories was one about Sadie’s mother having a nervous breakdown and chewing the ends off her fingers, a gruesome tale from childhood never verified.

From outside the car, somewhere over by the house was a faraway shout broken up by the downpour of water.

“What the hell?”

Through the curtain of rain I could just see the figure of Sadie sloshing toward the car. She was partly obscured by a wind-whipped green and white golf umbrella, but as she got closer I could see a robust old woman, hair a fright, and wearing one of those old skirted bathing suits from the late 40s.

“Do you think she saw us drive up and then went and changed into her swimsuit?” Lillian wondered.

“That or she’s had it on all day. Either way I like it.”

Sadie got to the car with spare umbrellas, and we jumped out into ankle deep water, fought the umbrellas open and made a dash for the open garage. Sadie laughed all the way, shouting against the rain, “I shoulda come out in the boat!”

Inside the garage she took the sopping umbrellas, throwing them in a heap on the concrete floor. “Lordy, Lordy! Ya’ll ever seen such a rain? Come on inside, we can unload anything you got in the car later. Wilmore, what d’ya drink? I got just about anything. You want a highball?”

We sat around the kitchen table talking about the old neighborhood, family folk, who was where and what happened to this uncle or that cousin. Sadie going on about Aunt Flossie and her eyesight, and me off to the side taking the moment to sit and watch her talk.

Sadie had to be seventy-five and couldn’t fool anyone about that, but she was a hearty woman and still looked strong enough to hoe a row in her big backyard garden. She had all that white hair blown out in a firecracker style that made her look a little wild. Had a way of fluttering her fingers as she talked, gestures not particularly connected to the words you were hearing, but punctuation of a different kind. I decided the swimsuit must have been familiar clothing to her, because she was browned and tan all over from hours under the sun. I guessed it was a gardening outfit rather than rainy day wear. It had a vintage pattern of old steamships sailing around islands of bright tropical fruit and was beautiful.

“I s’ppose ya’ll hadn’t heard about Auntee’s boy. They got him wearing one of those police things around his ankle…drugs.”

Listening to Sadie talk, my thoughts went back to summers long ago at the house on Wabash. With supper done and the cool stretch of night ahead, out came the card table, and not ten minutes later two bridge partners walking up the porch steps swatting at June bugs. I never learned to play the game, but from what I gathered Sadie Gremillion and Bessie Odom were the two most sought after bridge partners. Bessie lived next door and was my friend Bootsie’s grandmother.

Even now bridge remains a mystery, but I learned to love the talk. How many nights, how many times the litany of bridge talk filled those after-supper hours. The four of them sitting around that rickety old stale green bridge table repeating what seemed to me like coded phrases.

“Bessie, you’ll never take a trick with that three of clubs.”

“Just hold on a minute and let me play my hand, Sadie. I had to slough that three of clubs.”

“And I thought I was the dummy. You gonna go down for sure, woman.”

“Ya’ll hush up. Let’s finish this rubber and have some coffee. I made lemon squares today ’cause I know Sadie loves ’em.” That was Mama, studying her cards, one hand held up in a familiar pose of balancing another inch long ash on her Philip Morris.

I could hear Sadie on the telephone in the other room talking to her son, Rodney. He was in the real estate business and Sadie was getting his take on the situation with our old house across town. A few minutes later she hung up the phone and came into the kitchen.

“Listen, I been talking to Rodney about this business. He said ya’ll oughta hold on awhile. Hold on and give him some time to see if anyone in the office is got any ideas about people looking to buy cheap over there. He said they’s people who buy cheap and then rebuild the house so they can sell it and make a little money. You might wanna give Rodney a little time to look around…can’t hurt, can it? You got three months ’fore the city’s gon’ get after you. Wilmore, you want something to eat?”

“You got any rhubarb or buttermilk pie?” I asked, looking over at Lillian.

“Sadie, don’t listen to him!”

“No, I ain’t got any that, but I got some apple pie. You want a slice?” She was already out of her chair and over at an old pie safe on the counter.

“No, Sadie. I’m starting to see double. I’m going to bed,” I said.

The sky was an early morning luminous gray when we pulled out of Sadie’s driveway not long after five o’clock, early start on a long drive back, sipping on Sadie’s send off of chicory-spiked Louisiane Coffee and heading east into a shimmer of sun creeping over the horizon.

“Lillian, how long you gonna stay behind this truck? Go over it. Go under it, but get around it somehow.”

It was an old line of our Daddy Clyde’s dredged up from a long-ago family vacation, when we drove those southern roads in a black 1948 Chevrolet.

Hobby Box 17

The eagerly awaited new issue of Stationery Hobby Box (Shumi no bungu bako), volume 17 arrived today from a friend in Tokyo. The cover story this time is (roughly translated) ‘Cool Pens and Notebooks We Want to Try Right Now,’ The fountain pen featured in the center of the cover is a new model from Montblanc, the Meisterstück Diamond, a treasure in two sizes for those willing to dig deep into their wallet.

Feature articles in this issue include one on notebooks, pens and ink for work, a beautiful page on the Pelikan 100 series, an Herbin story on the new 1670 ink, and including a fold-out color chart, a long article on the world of nibs, and several pages on Mina Ishiwatari, President of Hoppy Beverage Company. Ms Ishiwatari is featured because she owns a collection of 250 fountain pens, writes a daily blog in longhand with pen and ink, choosing the pen and ink that suits her mood each time. Have a look here. I chose two pages from the Ishiwatari article to scan, partially because one page shows two new limited edition Iroshizuku inks, edo-murasaki and shimbashi-iro. There is a third limited edition color called fukagawa-nezu. Samples of the murasaki and fukagawa above are from The Laurel Tree blog. To my eyes, the fukagawa-nezu is a must have.

The current issue is the first to include an advertisement related to Apple's iPad. A company named Mejin Takuya is now making an iPad leather slipcase that comes in fourteen colors. If I’m converting the yen to dollar rate correctly, this little luxury item sells for $425, only $74 less than the iPad.

The article on fountain pen nibs around the world is twelve pages of stunning detail. From a brief look, the writer and photographer don’t seem to have left out much.

Little surprise to find another article on the acclaimed “God of Fountain Pens” Nobuyoshi Nagahara, and the fadeless beauty of his Naginata nibs. This is a man who has been making nibs for Sailor over the past sixty-four years.

Also included in this quarter’s issue is information and photographs of ten different notebooks, diaries, planners and sketchbooks. This line up, though beautiful in design and layout, is a little disappointing in that none of the featured products come in a blank page alternative, except for the Drawing Block sketchbooks. Life is offering a new hardbound journal that looks good, but also has lined pages.

In an earlier post on Stationery Hobby Box, I bemoaned the fact that eighty percent of the stationery goods showcased in the magazine are too expensive for my budget, but the presentations alone are a pleasure to ogle and wish for. This magazine is exceptional in the quality of its writing, photography, layout and design, and to me worth its $17 price tag.

For those interested in further sample pages from Stationery Hobby Box, there are some earlier posts here:

June 5

March 21

December 23, ’09