Kung Te-Ch’eng

Lots of buzz these days about an ink from Noodler’s called Kung Te-Ch’eng. In terms of color, quality and description it has some interesting characteristics. A shade of bluish-purple, it’s not one that particularly lights my fire but it is understandable why many others are excited by it. Reading a couple of reviews and seeing the attached samples gave a good idea of color and performance, and also a couple of ‘watch out for’ tips. The makers of Kung Te-Ch’eng state right off that for the health of your fountain pens this is an ink that must be used with caution. It also has a very strong chemical smell which some may not like, and spilled on anything, this bulletproof (permanent) ink is there to stay, so care must be taken.

What caught my eye before even getting a look at the ink was the name and description. Why did Noodler’s choose the name Kung Te-Ch’eng, that of a contemporary Chinese statesman who died only three years ago? Interesting story. The ink maker’s stated goal was ‘an attempt to replicate the color, depth, behavior, properties and general characteristics of the first royal ink of ancient China.’ According to information offered by JetPens, ink blenders at Noodler’s were interested in China’s royal ink at the time of Confucius. To understand the shade of ink used at the time, experts have examined the remnants of ink stones used by the Chinese Emperors, but information is limited by the passage of years as well as difficulty in getting cooperation from museums and collectors. The preference, according to what has been learned was for a blue-purple. In gratitude for the assistance received in their search, Noodler’s chose to name their ink Kung Te-Ch’eng, the name of the 77th lineal descendant of Confucius.

Kung Te-Ch’eng (1920-2008) was a member of the National Assembly of the Republic of China from 1946 to 1991, helped draft the 1947 Constitution of the Republic of China and was a senior advisor to the President of the Republic of China for over fifty years. He was for a number of years director of the National Palace Museum in Taipei and served as President of the Examination Yuan for almost ten years. As a descendant of Confucius, the first character of his name is the same as the ancient philosopher’s.

The royal blue-purple ink of ancient China was of course used exclusively by the Emperor and his statesmen-advisors in recording official policy. Outside of the palace confines, the standard ink at that time was black. Ancient Egyptians and Chinese, both developed ink at approximately the same time around 2500 BC. From long ago Chinese literature has referred to the brush, ink, inkstone and paper as the “four precious things of the library.” Evidence for early Chinese inks similar to the modern ink sticks we see now dates from around 256 BC. The ink was produced from soot and animal glue, using fine particles of carbon lampblack for color, and gum or glue as a binder. It was sold in solid sticks or cakes, either round or rectangular. For writing it was was ground on an inkstone and mixed with water. The finest lampblack is said to come from the burning of vegetable oils but in ancient times the best soot came from burning the wood of specially selected pine trees in an ink furnace which included inverted pottery jars to catch the smoke. The jars trapped the soot which was later removed with feather brushes. The soot was then mixed with glue made from horn or animal hides. Glue made from the horns of young deer was of the highest quality because of its purity. Good ink was dependent upon good glue, giving the ink texture and life.

In reading about Chinese ink I came upon an interesting tidbit about the Chinese Imperial examinations which were given to select those qualified for government posts between the years 605 and 1905. The examinations were very long and each student taking the exam arrived at an examination compound with only a few amenities: a water pitcher, a chamber pot, bedding, food, an inkstone, ink, and brushes.

Examples of Chinese calligraphy on the right:

The first is by Zhang Zuyi (1849-1917) in the style called Clerical Script.

The second example on darker paper is by Chen Hongshou (1768-1822) written in the Running Script style.

My Horse Turned Left

Most of the day around here has been a confusion of cords and cables and sub-normal connections. Circuits smoked, signals crossed and wires dead-ended. Wouldn’t it be nice to think that life could really be a case of plug and play? Well, good luck on that. Without my good friend Nobu offering up some expertise I might still be tangled in a hell of connecting cables.

Exhausted at the end of our electronic wrestling match, I flopped into a chair with a highball and reached for the nearest book at hand. Around here you can never be sure what ‘reaching for’ is going to yield, but this time it was Charles Bukowski’s 2007 The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems. Any regular visitor to these pages will already know that Bukowski holds a special place in my heart. His honesty appeals, his bravery inspires. Below are two poems from the 2007 collection.

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS

all of my knowledge about horse racing
told me that this was a sure bet.
I bet one thousand to win.
the horse had post one
at 6 furlongs.

the bell rang and they came
out of the gate.

my horse turned left
ran through the fence
fell down and
died
right there
at 7/5.

when I tell people this story
they don’t say
anything.

sometimes there’s nothing to say
about
death.

I LIVE IN A NEIGHBORHOOD OF MURDER

the roaches spit out rusted

paper clips

and the helicopter circles and circles

smelling for blood

searchlights leering down into our

bathrooms

searching for our two-lid cache under the

mattress.

5 guys in this court have pistols

another a

machete

we are all murderers and

alcoholics

but there are worse in the hotel

across the street;

they sit in the green and and white doorway

banal and depraved

waiting to be

institutionalized.

here we each have a dying green plant

on our porch

and when we fight with our women at 3 a.m.

we do so

in hushed tones

as outside on each porch

stands a small dish of food

that is always eaten by morning

we presume

by the

cats.

A Continual Feast

One of the pastimes I enjoy is reading to a few elderly women in the neighborhood. To that end an eye is always open for books, stories and poems that would make good material for these times. Experience has taught that stories revolving around the usual bestselling storylines—murder, sex, corruption and abuse—don’t go over well with ladies born sometime in the early twentieth century. Their desire for stories and poems is centered in a gentler time.

Over the past months I have read from a long list of writers, but not at all surprising are the requests for scripture, for stories from the Bible. That’s fine with me since the Bible is overflowing with great poetry and rich stories. From that end, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to realize that Jan Karon is a writer these ladies would enjoy. The writer is known for her Mitford series of novels, nine in all, with a couple of related extras. The Mitford stories are a big hit with those I read to for the reason that Karon is an excellent storyteller, and because her stories are free of the dark ravages that characterize modern society. In her small village of Mitford, snuggled in a green valley in North Carolina there are few if any ‘bad’ or unsavory characters, and nothing more upsetting that a ten year-old boy giving his classmate a shiner.

Following up on her main character, Father Tim Kavanagh of Lord’s Chapel, Karon published in 2005 a collection of Father Tim’s favorite quotes. This one is called A Continual Feast and if nothing else is evidence of wide reading by the lovable Father. Throughout the Mitford series Father Tim is a great journal keeper and many of his pages are sprinkled with words on his mind from either scripture or his favorite writers or public figures.

Here are a few of Father Tim’s favorites…

‘Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst for, I have lived today.’ —John Dryden

‘Nothing is worth more than this day.‘ —Goethe

‘Sometimes you’ve got to jump off cliffs and grow wings on the way down.’ —Ray Bradbury

‘Therefore encourage one another and build each other up.’ —1 Thessalonians 5:11

‘Whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re absolutely right.’ —Henry Ford

‘A sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.’ —Washington Irving

‘Human nature is what we were put on this earth to rise above.’ —Katherine Hepburn in The African Queen

‘Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’er fraught heart and bids it break.’ —Wm Shakespeare, Macbeth

‘The way I see it, if you want the rainbow, you’ve got to put up with the rain.’ —Dolly Parton

‘The best way out is always through.’ —Robert Frost

Jenkins & Co.

As things often do, a 2007 film by writer-director Tamara Jenkins got past me when it was first released. But as I discovered, The Savages was another of those casual picks from the library shelves that turned out to be pure gold. It premiered at the Sundance Film Festival and garnered two Academy Award nominations, one for Best Actress (Laura Linney) and another for Best Original Screenplay (Jenkins). Philip Seymour Hoffman won four different best actor awards for his performance and in the opinion of many Philip Bosco’s performance is equally celebrated. The Savages is one of those movies that will last as an example of high-quality filmmaking.

Hoffman and Linney play a not particularly close brother and sister faced with the problem of an abusive father whom neither has seen for twenty years but who suddenly requires their care. Suffering from dementia and forced out of his home, the problem of what to do with him is dropped suddenly into the already troubled lives of his two children, Jon (Hoffman) and Wendy (Linney).

The screenplay has all the qualities we look for in good movies: humor, heartbreak, the offbeat and a large dose of very fine writing. Combine that screenplay with intelligent direction and three masterful performances from Hoffman, Linney and Philip Bosco and you have good reason why The Savages appeared on fifteen Top 10 lists the year it was released.

The movie is not strictly about the problems of aging—though Jenkins treats us to some ugly moments of that condition. The opening scenes in an Arizona retirement community painted in pastels and sunshine and running on golf carts and Lawrence Welk are wonderful, offering a perfect contrast to later scenes in a snow blanketed second-rate nursing home in Buffalo. But the writer-director is more interested in how caring for an abusive and demented father affects a dysfunctional brother and sister and how unforeseen responsibilities alter the jealousies and distrust that have been their history.

Several scenes in The Savages could be used as how-to lessons in film school but two in particular deserve mention. Brother and sister attempt one of those ‘caring for the elderly’ classes but arrive late and draw the immediate attention of a bossy ‘teacher’ who without missing a beat embarrasses the two mercilessly. As they stand in the back unsure what to do, nibbling cookies from a tray, the teacher informs them in a loud voice that refreshments are not being served yet. In a brilliant touch they sheepishly replace their half-eaten cookies on the tray.

In a later near-violent scene in the car brother and sister scream and berate each other. Foreseeing no end to the clamor and not really concerned, the father turns off his hearing aid and pulls the hood of his coat over his head. Another master touch.

There is so much that is good in this movie, had it not been so late I would have played it a second time. That will have to wait for another day. As for the actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman is proving himself to be one of the best of his generation. As for Laura Linney, she and Hoffman work together like saw and hammer. Her performance in this movie brought only her third Academy Award nomination. And Philip Bosco? Another beautifully shaded and subtle performance from a long proven actor.

Granted The Savages is a dark story but it has something for us all in its examination of aging, pride, jealousy, cynicism and ultimately the workings of that ancient dynamic, family. However you manage your movie viewing, put this one on your playlist.

Scattered Moments

Looking for something today ended with a box of old photographs and postcards, the search stalled while I rummaged through scattered moments and seasons from bygone days. Unlike some, I’ve always resisted the notion of aligning old photographs in systematic pages of year and occasion, a layout enabling the viewer linear movement through memories that are better enjoyed in haphazard order. Suppose it could be a way of rehashing the past peculiar to just me, but the catapult from one disjointed old image to another is the kind of reminiscence I savor.

Something warns me that few beside myself will find much meaning or value in the three photographs and two postcards I set aside. Can’t remember when I last looked at these pictures, small and rumpled paper cards that got tossed into a box when I left Japan. Each one of the five rings a distinct tone, has a background that could fill, well…

Postcard from a longtime friend who left Japan after a long stay. For some years all non-Japanese residents of Japan were required to register at a government office called ‘Alien Registration.’ This old postcard is an American card, one probably made by a photographer familiar with Japanese Immigration procedures. From my friend Laura, it brings her back in a thousand ways.

Through the connections of my teacher or deliberations unknown to me, one of my works in brushwriting (shodô) was selected for inclusion in an exhibition. Mine is at the top left in the green frame. Makes me wonder how Motohashi-san, my longtime teacher is getting along.

Picture of my very first desktop in Komae, 1982. Most of the books are dictionaries of one kind or another, the large red one at the left is even now resting at one end of my Florida desk. This photo reminds me of a good friend and the house we rented beside a bamboo grove on the grounds of an old temple.

‘A Man of the World’ (Ein Mann von Welt!), a German postcard from one of my oldest friends, mailed from New York to Tokyo.

A memento of Singapore purchased at a flea market while on holiday in Southeast Asia. The picture caught my eye with its sublime composition of eight family members, almost certainly ethnic Chinese—the unknown photographer a true artist. Oddly enough, looking at the picture brings back a terrible car crash I came through one week earlier in Southern Thailand.

As Dean Martin once sang, “Memories are made of this…”

As Fundamental As Shoes

Pencil cases are as fundamental as shoes in Japan and there are probably very few people who leave home without. For students the need is obvious, but pencil cases are also prominent in briefcases, handbags and tote bags everywhere. Like that oddball back pocket accessory the coin purse, a special case for pens and pencils never occurred to me before living in Japan. After a month there I found it inconvenient to be without a pen case.

Japan produces a gargantuan number of pen cases in unlimited styles, designs, colors and sizes. Anyone shopping at either Tokyu Hands or Loft in Tokyo will be dazzled by pencil cases in numbers and varieties that equal the shelf count of breakfast cereals in American supermarkets. Some Japanese will use the same one for years. Others will buy a new one each year and still others buy many of them to use as fashion accessories. What was once called a fude-bako, now Americanized into ‘pen case’ holds a rock solid position in Japanese culture.

I got a new pen case the other day, and of course it’s a Japanese one. It came from JetPens in California and the same one seems to be selling like hotcakes. Thanks to Leigh Reyes at the forever fantastic blog, My Life as a Verb for her post on the Nomadic PE-10 which sent me quick-clicking to JetPens. Besides liking the look of the PE-10, I was struck by something Leigh said in her review: “Easiest one to find in a bag because it is a screaming red.” That’s a quality that appeals.

The Nomadic PE-10 holds a lot of stuff. It measures 21cm (8.25in) in length, is 10cm (3.9in) wide and without even pushing it, I put in all its pockets and slots four fountain pens, two ballpoints, two full-length wooden pencils, one highlite pen, one fat mechanical pencil, an eraser, a ruler and a pair of scissors. Leigh Reyes gets a lot more in hers.

The case is made of a durable nylon with a super-strong Velcro seal. It’s offered in red, yellow, navy, khaki and black. The tiny feature that I especially like is the tag that reads (in typical Japanese-English, or Janglish) ‘Nomadic For Budget And Save Money.’

The Nomadic PE-10 is top quality. My thanks again to Leigh Reyes and JetPens.

Anyone interested in what a typical Japanese high school student carries in his pencil case, look here.

Pencils in the Trees

When a poet has published twenty-seven collections of her work, won a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award for Poetry and been awarded three Honorary Doctorates, an extensive introduction with commentary doesn’t seem all that necessary.

MARY OLIVER was born in Maple Heights, Ohio in 1935. She has lived for years in Provincetown, Massachusetts. An avid walker, her daily walks near home provide the imagery that fills her poems. In a rare interview, the poet described walking once in the woods and discovering she had no pen and later hiding pencils in the trees so she would never be stuck again. The three poems below are included in her 1992 collection, New and Selected Poems.

ACID

In Jakarta,

among the vendors

of flowers and soft drinks,

I saw a child

with a hideous mouth,

begging,

and I knew the wound was made

for a way to stay alive.

What I gave him

wouldn't keep a dog alive.

What he gave me

from the brown coin

of his sweating face

was a look of cunning.

I carry it

like a bead of acid

to remember how,

once in a while,

you can creep out of your own life

and become someone else—

an explosion

in that nest of wires

we call the imagination.

I will never see him

again, I suppose.

But what of this rag,

this shadow

flung like a boy’s body

into the walls

of my mind, bleeding

their sour taste—

insult and anger,

the great movers?

THE FISH

The first fish

I ever caught

would not lie down

quiet in the pail

but flailed and sucked

at the burning

amazement of the air

and died

in the slow pouring off

of rainbows. Later

I opened his body and separated

the flesh from the bones

and ate him. Now the sea

is in me: I am the fish, the fish

glitters in me; we are

risen, tangled together, certain to fall

back to the sea. Out of pain,

and pain, and more pain

we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished

by the mystery.

A LETTER FROM HOME

She sends me news of bluejays, frost,
Of stars and now the harvest moon
That rides above the stricken hills.
Lightly, she speaks of cold, of pain,
And lists what is already lost.
Here where my life seems hard and slow,
I read of glowing melons piled
Beside the door, and baskets filled
With fennel, rosemary and dill,
While all she could not gather in
Or hide in leaves, grows black and falls.
Here where my life seems hard and strange,
I read her wild excitement when
Stars climb, frost comes, and bluejays sing.
The broken year will make no change
Upon her wise and whirling heart;—
She knows how people always plan
To live their lives, and never do.
She will not tell me if she cries.

I touch the crosses by her name;
I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
Drift scraps of borage, woodbine, rue.