Kyoto Journal Issue 98: Ma Sneak Preview

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INSIGHTS FROM ASIA

JOURNAL

ma: a measure of infinity

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PHOTOGRAPH BY PATRICK HOCHNER


to our readers In 2020, we entered our 33rd year of publishing Kyoto Journal. From the beginning, we have always been non-profit, all-volunteer and proudly independent. We have been exceptionally fortunate over the years to be able to share with our readers the creative work of writers, translators, artists, photographers, designers, activists and researchers—their generous contributions have made Kyoto Journal what it is. We are truly grateful to the many, many talented volunteers over the years who have kept our wheels turning. And, needless to say, we deeply appreciate the dedication of our readers, world-wide; we make the Journal for you. The Covid-19 pandemic has been hard on KJ. We are small, lack regular funding, and face the demands of reaching a readership that is mostly located outside Japan. These challenges have been hugely exacerbated by the effects of the pandemic, with distributors and retailers collapsing, many orders wiped out, and the imposition of a ban on outgoing international mail shortly after the release of KJ 97. Many subscribers have been waiting for months for issues, and we feel bad about this. Given our present circumstances, we had to make the difficult decision to sadly suspend printing issues. For the time being, we will produce downloadable PDF issues, instead. Our goal, of course, is to eventually return to print—because we believe there is a need in the world for slow, beautiful, independent print publications, and we know our readers understand and value this approach. We sincerely appreciate your support and patience through this difficult time. Finally, if you like what we do, we have special discounts on many of our back issues*— and we gladly accept donations, that really do help KJ keep going. —the editors

*At present we can mail to most of Europe, Singapore, Hong Kong, Korea and Canada.

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PHOTOGRAPH BY PATRICK HOCHNER


ma: a measure of infinity Ma—A Measure of Infinity Ken Rodgers

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間 Marc P. Keane

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Ma—Place, Space, Void Gunter Nitschke

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Ear-Opening Revelations: Moments of Ma in Music Joshua Pearl

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Photography and Ma Yuna Yagi

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Between Form and Emptiness Leanne Ogasawara interviews artist Miya Ando

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Ma in Leonardo da Vinci’s “The Last Supper”: Reflections on its Space and Time Hikaru Hirata-Miyakawa

The Heart of the Matter: Translating the Heart Sutra Leanne Ogasawara

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Impression of Kamogawa Yamagami Yukihiro

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Animating Ma The Calligraphic Art of Nakajima Hiroyuki

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A Day in the Life of a Cobra Lily Brian Turner

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Moments of Silence and Stillness Magda Rittenhouse

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IN TRANSLATION Translations of the Wang River Poetic Duets Wang Wei and Pei Di, trans. by Dan Veach

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Contemplating Ma at Murin-an Yamada Saki

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In Search of Totem Poles Hoshino Michio, trans. Eli K.P. William

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Empty Kyoto—and Overtourism Photographs by Stuart Gibson and others Text by Ken Rodgers

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In the Cave Ann Tashi Slater

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OUR KYOTO Kyoto’s Lost Landmarks: Legendary Presences in Absence Ken Rodgers

On Isolation Text and Photographs by Kit Pancoast Nagamura

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POETRY Arthur Sze, Buson, Garrett Hongo, Ishihara Yoshino, Ian Daishi Koebner

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STORY Master Issoku’s Great Shout John Gohorry

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REVIEWS

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RAMBLE The Point of When Robert Brady

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CONVERSATION Some Gravel, Some Stones: Nature, Art, and Spirit in Japanese Gardens Stephen Mansfield interviews author Marion Poschmann

Constructing Reality: VR and the Formless Mind A dialog between Atticus Sims and the Rev. Kawakami Takafumi

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Mind the Gap— an Artist’s Associative Journey through Japan Stephan Koehler

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The Contemplative Gaze Edward A. Burger

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Photographic Ma Robert van Koesveld

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Cover photograph: Magda Rittenhouse



ma— a measure of infinity

Ma is a fundamental Japanese principle of interval, or pause, that applies to both space and time. Spatially ma defines architectural measurements and thereby the proportions of rooms; it is the dynamic play created by asymmetrical placement of stones in karesansui (“dry landscape”) gardens like that of Ryoanji, and dwells in the relationship between brush-strokes and the white paper that they appear on, in images such as the austere craggy Song shan shui paintings that partly inspired those Zen gardens, and in the both highly controlled and unmediated energy of calligraphic strokes in shodo. It can be seen in the “vacant” space created by deft placement of a flower stem in ikebana, or the decisive pruning of a bonsai tree. Absence, paradoxically, can be a powerful presence. Temporally, ma is the “the moment of no action, the stillness and silence that is filled with more powerful energy than the moments of action on the classic Noh stage”—or the breath-by-breath pacing of a shakuhachi score, the “space between notes.” It may be experienced in the arrangement of steppingstones in a stroll garden or tea-house roji, where placements predetermine walking rhythm and reveal unexpected vistas. Ma characteristically contains a sense of fresh potentiality within time and space, and within human perception (mind-space). It can be perceived as the field in which mental images in haiku and renga converge and meld within the mind’s eye, or in which Buddha-mind conceives The Heart Sutra’s invocation of form as emptiness, emptiness as form.

Opposite: Hirisha Mehta; Above: calligraphy by Rie Tanaka


The kanji character for ma (間) combines “gate” and “sun” (formerly moon) representing light penetrating through an aperture, implying an opportunity for illumination, an interval that could be filled with the alighting spiritual energy of a Shinto kami—imagine, perhaps, the brilliance emanating from the sun-goddess Amaterasu’s cave as she peeks out in unrestrainable curiosity, after isolating herself from the world. The innovative modernist Japanese architect Isozaki Arata (who, incidentally, designed the Kyoto Concert Hall, a 1200th anniversary project opened in 1995), brought this integral Japanese concept to Western consciousness in a specially-themed exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs Festival d’Automne in Paris in 1978, titled “MA: Japanese Time-Space Concept.” The following excerpt is from his introductory essay: “Things fading, flowers falling, flickering movements of mind, shadows falling on water and ground—these are the phenomena that have most impressed the Japanese. This view of nature is naturally reflected In Japanese architectural space; it is expressed in a conception of indefinite space in which, for example, the permeation of light or of lines of vision is determined by a layer of flat boards so thin as to be almost transparent. What appears from the space is a flickering of shadows—a momentary shift between the reality and a world of unrealities. MA is an empty moment of waiting for this change.” We settled on the theme of this issue well before the COVID-19 pandemic exploded and put life on hold around the world, resulting in a global pause which has added unexpected and deeper relevance to the concept, and contributors’ responses. Some articles and images offered here deal literally with various interpretations and phenomena of ma. Others are more lateral explorations of presences and absences in the mindspace of ma. When we seek to measure infinity, infinity measures us. May this selection open the mind’s eye to fresh illuminations. —Ken Rodgers

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GRAPHIC BY GARDEN DESIGNER AND AUTHOR MARC P. KEANE


GUNTER NITSCHKE

ma—place, space, void Length of time depends upon our ideas. Size of space hangs upon our sentiments. For one whose mind is free from care, A day will outlast the millennium. For one whose heart is large, A tiny room is as the space between heaven and earth.1

P

lace is the product of lived space and lived time, a reflection of our states of mind and heart. In the original Chinese, the above poem ends with the character 間, which in Japanese is pronounced chiefly as ma. Originally, this character consisted of the pictorial sign for “moon” (月)—not the present-day “sun” (日)—under the sign for “gate” (門). For a Chinese or Japanese using language consciously, this ideogram, depicting a delicate moment of moonlight streaming through a chink in the entranceway, fully expresses the two simultaneous components of a sense of place: the objective, given aspect and the subjective, felt aspect. The translation of ma as “place” is my own.2 The dictionaries say “space,” but historically the notion of place precedes our contemporary idea of space as a measurable area. Architectural theorists accept this: “In [our] understanding of nature we… recognize the origin of the concept of space as a system

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of places.” 3 My translation was selected in part to get away from the rendering of ma as “imaginary space” by Itoh Teiji 4; this deals only with the subjective aspect, without doing justice to the full spectrum of use and meaning which this venerable character represents. It must be stressed that a ‘sense of place’ does not negate an objective awareness of the static or homogenous quality of topological space. Rather, it infuses the objective space with an additional subjective awareness of lived, existential, non-homogenous space. It also incorporates a recognition of the activities which ‘take place’ in a particular space, and different meanings a place might have for various individuals or cultures. “Physical appearance, activities, and meanings are the raw material of the identity of places…” 5 From the hundreds of uses of the character ma in traditional and modern Japanese, I have selected a few which I present here in order of increasing complexity of meaning.


some gravel, some stones NATURE, ART, AND SPIRIT IN JAPANESE GARDENS MARION POSCHMANN, INTERVIEW AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY STEPHEN MANSFIELD


FUKUCHI-IN (KOYA-SAN)


CO N V E R S AT I O N

L

ast year, German writer Marion Poschmann’s novel The Pine Islands, set in Japan, was translated into English. Winner of the Berlin Prize for Literature, it was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize. The following are extracts from a discussion between the author, who is also a poet, and the Japan-based writer and photographer Stephen Mansfield, based on her three-month stay as a guest at Kyoto’s Goethe Institute-Villa Kamogawa.

STEPHEN MANSFIELD: I understand that a great deal of your time in Kyoto was spent in the city’s gardens. What drew you to them? And how did you approach them? MARION POSCHMANN: For many years I have been interested in the

art of gardening. All the specific connotations, the Garden of Eden, paradise, the Arcadian landscape, you can find in a Baroque garden and as well in an English garden. When I visit a city, I always try at first to find the gardens and parks. I did so, for example, when I was spending a month in Kaliningrad. This was especially interesting, because there you can find parks originating from several times and ideological concepts: former German city parks, based on the opening of aristocratic gardens to the public, botanical and zoological gardens, typical Soviet parks with playgrounds, amusement parks and parade grounds for the annual Victory Day marches. I found that you learn a lot about a country and its history by strolling through the gardens. And that was my intention in Kyoto: to get in touch with Japanese aesthetics by visiting the Japanese gardens, to perceive their beauty, to contemplate them. And, of course, I read a lot about them, because usually you only see what you know.

You devote over a page of your novel, The Pine Islands, to an extensive listing of the varietals of the Japanese pine. Can you explain the centrality of the tree in your mind?

In one sense, my novel is a book mostly about trees. It deals with the Japanese Pine and the American Sugar Maple, and my first idea was to write a book just about the beauty of these trees, a very quiet, meditative, poetical book. Actually, I started with a poem, which has the same title, ‘The Pine Islands’. But a tree is not only beauty and nature, it represents history and politics, it is a symbol and a concept, and it was very interesting for me to compare how different countries look at their trees, which means looking in a way at themselves. The Japanese Black Pine is a tree connected with wisdom and strength and discipline. It is formally trimmed in a way that is looks absolutely wild, so nature is formed into an image of nature, an idea of nature. In writing about pines, I wrote a book about projections and prejudices, culture and representation, traditions and modern society, dream and reality. Another inspiration for the book came from the Noh plays. I am fascinated by the structure of these plays, especially by the aspect of illusion. Most Noh dramas are a kind of ghost story, but you never know who plays the role of the ghost: the living person or the dead. I wanted to do something similar, and I think my character Yosa fits in this scheme; he might be called a doppelgänger. 26 | kyoto journal 98

Photo: Heike Steinweg, www.heikesteinweg.com


Shoden-ji (Kyoto) Giou-ji (Arashiyama)


between form and emptiness

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CONVERSATION

The Cathedral

LEANNE OGASAWARA INTERVIEWS ARTIST MIYA ANDO kyoto journal 98 | 37


CONVERSATION

A

descendent on her mother’s side of Bizen sword-makers and Buddhist priests, American artist Miya Ando’s childhood was spent between her family’s temple in Okayama, Japan and the Californian redwood forests near Santa Cruz. Her work in metal, canvas and sculpture is deeply rooted in Buddhist philosophy and are meditations on the human experience of time, the seasons, and ephemerality. In addition to her numerous solo exhibitions, one of her large-scale works was exhibited at the 56th Venice Biennale in 2015, in the historic Museo di Palazzo Grimani. Leanne Ogasawara interviewed Miya by email, prompted by her recent exhibition at the Asia Society in Texas, ‘Form is Emptiness, Emptiness is Form.’

Leanne Ogasawara: Miya, thank you for talking with us during these strange times of Covid-19. I think the lockdown might be easier for introverts. Are you finding this to be a fruitful time for making art?

Miya Ando: I’m very happy being alone all day in my studio not speaking to anyone, so that part of the lockdown I don’t mind at all. I’m finding this period to be reflective and fruitful; I enjoy the quietude. I’m also very concerned about the deaths and danger. You spent your childhood in the forests of Santa Cruz, as well as in a Buddhist temple in Japan. I wonder if you could discuss two specific works that relate to these different places?

I made ‘The Cathedral’ (‘The Shrine of Trees, The Sisters and the Mother’) for an exhibition at The Museum of Art and History, Lancaster California in 2018. It is a homage to the Santa Cruz mountains where I grew up. I lived on twentyfive acres of redwood forest, very rural and off the grid. My father once made my sister and I a treehouse in a cathedral of redwood trees.

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What is a cathedral of redwood trees? —I’ve never heard that expression before.

A naturally-occurring ring of trees is called a “cathedral.” In the center is the oldest, largest tree. It drops seeds, which become seedlings and eventually large trees surround the center tree. There is a natural ring of redwood trees (200 plus feet tall) where I lived in the Santa Cruz mountains. In the center of the ring was a “mother” tree that had been struck by lightning and was charred black. I have been fascinated by the fact that within a ring of trees, if the “mother” tree suffers very serious damage the trees around it send glucose via their roots to the dying tree and keep it alive, sometimes for decades. The piece invites visitors to enter the ring of trees, created with gossamer silk chiffon panels, aiming to create a tranquil and contemplative, immersive environment.


Kisetsu (Seasons)

California’s redwood trees are a sight to behold…

Yes. They are the largest living organisms on earth and some of the oldest. I’ve seen these giants sway and bow in thundering rain and during extreme storms—and yet they stand. I always thought that these trees are so wise, they’ve seen it all and they are majestic and elegant. I’d like to be just like them. I’ve also heard a redwood tree fall in a storm and the crashing sound is like no other. Where is your family’s temple located in Japan? Which sect is it?

My grandfather was the head priest of a Nichiren temple in Okayama. Now my cousin has taken the position.

Every decision was based upon the perfect color of the season. This acute attention and respect for nature made a huge impression on me. It felt so refined to be so aware of this type of harmony with nature. Could you tell us about your apprenticeship with the Hattori studio and your family’s background in metal-working?

My ancestor Ando Yoshiro Masakatsu was a swordsmith. Notably, he created a sword that is considered a national treasure of Japan. I studied as an apprentice at Hattori studio when I was a young woman, and learned about respect for materials, techniques and practices of metallurgy.

Is there a particular work that reflects your time there?

I have made several works in homage to the Japanese part of my upbringing. ‘72 Kō’ (Seasons) is a grid of 72 paintings (pigment and urethane) that I made in 2018 for an exhibition in Singapore. There are 72 seasons in the ancient Japanese calendar. When I was a child, I would watch my grandmother put on her kimonos and take careful time planning the color of her obi and various parts of the outfit. kyoto journal 98 | 39


mom e n t s o f s il e n c e a n d s t i lln e s s TEXT & PHOTOGRAPHS BY MAGDA RITTENHOUSE

Gates, thresholds, screens and passages—intermediary zones created to gently separate the inside from the outside, the sacred from the profane, the safe and tamed from the unfamiliar. The kanji character for ma, 間, combines 門 “door” and 日 “sun.” A door through which beams of sun flow softly into a dark room? The zone where light and shade penetrate each other? An open veranda that is both sheltered and exposed? An intentionally empty tokonoma? Or perhaps a screened window— neither transparent nor opaque—which obscures the view of what’s beyond, but not quite? The space in between. Ma enables transitions. It’s about dividing and connecting; transcending differences and complexities. It is meant to create moments of silence and stillness. Ma—the emptiness in which time and space are obliterated, opposites reconciled, thoughts suspended. An invitation to awareness.

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78 | kyotoStuart journal 98 Kiyomizudera, Gibson


empty kyoto —and overtourism

TEXT BY KEN RODGERS PHOTOGRAPHS BY STUART GIBSON WITH DANIEL SOFER, ROBERT YELLIN, PETER MACINTOSH, AND NILS FERRY

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Kiyomizudera, Stuart Gibson

Byodoin, Stuart Gibson


Fushimi Inari, Stuart Gibson

Tofukuji, Stuart Gibson


I

t was right around the time I was heading into college that I started getting interested in the contemplative life. I was reading a lot, and Hesse, Salinger, Maugham, and Kerouac were taking me on epic, soulful adventures. Their writing had an incandescence—lit from the inside with inquiry and a spiritual longing.

Looking back, what I found in their writing was a shift in perspective toward a wider view of life. One that respects the entire spectrum of human experience—from joy to pain and everything in between. There is a dark aspect to this world, and we are most often encouraged to turn away from that shadow. I was frustrated by these messages around me—from billboards, television, and checkout-counter magazines—that said happiness is out there somewhere, in the opposite direction of the darkness. That you find happiness with your back toward sorrow, pain, longing, and disappointment. There was a whole part of life that felt hidden but full of meaning; taboo but honest. I did not want to abandon that darkness, as if it did not matter, and in me began to boil an eagerness to rebel against that great perpetuating myth about happiness.

the

contemplative gaze EDWARD A. BURGER

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Contemplative gaze means living with an awareness of mind—just that basic recognition that within us is this great mindscape, and what goes on in there defines what goes on out here, in life and how we experience the world.


When I was a student at The College of Wooster, by a miracle of serendipity and some great advice from my academic advisor, I landed in Dr. Ishwar Harris’s course on Buddhism. That day I heard the Buddha’s life story for the first time, and it was revelatory. I do not think I was really conscious of it at the time, but the Buddha embodied this very sense of rebellion to me. I learned that the Buddha was a prince and that his parents had him cloistered in a palace, hiding him away from the inevitabilities of sickness, old age, and death. But he abandoned palace life and struck out in the night, cutting off his royal locks, the symbol of his princely rank, to enter into the forest to meditate and live the contemplative life. He turned his gaze inward and committed his entire being to inner cultivation. What he left behind for us is the Dharma—practical and simple, yet evolutive teachings on how to become a kinder and wiser being in this world. I had found my shift in perspective, and with it, a lifetime of creative exploration. Subhuti, if a bodhisattva should thus claim, ‘I shall bring about the transformation of a world,’ such a claim would be untrue. And how so? The transformation of a world, Subhuti, the ‘transformation of a world’ is said by the Tathagata to be no transformation. Thus is it called the ‘transformation of a world’. —The Diamond Sutra, trans Red Pine By the end of my first year at the College, my exploration of Buddhist thought and culture was deepening. And so was my interest in art. I started reading the poems of a T’ang Dynasty hermit poet named Cold Mountain. Jack Kerouac affectionately called him a “Zen Lunatic” and seemed to identify with his aesthetic

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photographic ma ROBERT VAN KOESVELD

W

hen my Japanese friends use the word ma, they usually bracket its use with a verbal or non-verbal gesture that says “don’t ask me more about the word… I just know it when I see it.” Interestingly, this applies to both photographers and non-photographers. Photographers speak about “composition,” using words like balance, tension, empty space, leading lines, relative weight. But if an image is to have a chance at communicating something complex, subtle or mysterious, then it needs spaces inside it that draw the unconscious mind, the unknowing mind,

the feeling self. Gestures that touch you lighter than a feather or reach out from the void like a scream. Or a whisper. Is that a form of ma? Appropriating a word from a language you don’t know is fraught, of course. But the promise of finding something that might communicate that which has been unnameable till now is seductive. If I surrender to that sort of seduction, I might describe it as a gestalt. All the elements coming together, including context and presentation, in a way that invites a subjective response. A space for the heart.

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Sunai no sato

Traditional Japanese confectionery experience in Shiga Take a behind-the-scenes look at the headquarters of renowned traditional Japanese confectionery maker, Kanou Shoujuan. Nestled in woodlands near Lake Biwa and with an expansive plum orchard that bursts into color in late winter, experience wagashi-making classes, tea ceremony and more in this idyllic rural setting. 4-2-1 Oishiryumon, Otsu, Shiga Prefecture Class info/reservations: contact@sunainosato.com (English OK) Shuttle buses depart from Ishiyama Station, 15 mins from Kyoto Station www.facebook.com/kanou.s

@kanou_shoujuan

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Photo: Minechika Endo


INSIGHTS FROM ASIA

A non-profit, volunteer-produced quarterly since 1987

PUBLISHER John Einarsen

MANAGING DIRECTOR Lucinda Ping Cowing

MANAGING EDITOR Ken Rodgers

MARKETING COORDINATOR Alexandra Ting

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Susan Pavloska

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Ty Billman, Codi Hauka, Kyoko Yoshioka

IN TRANSLATION Dreux Richard

PHOTOGRAPHERS Minechika Endo, Daniel Sofer

REVIEWS David Cozy

VIDEO Codi Hauka, Eri Tamazawa

FICTION Suzanne Kamata

IN-KYOTO VOLUNTEERS Sneha Negish, Eri Tamazawa, Yamada Ai

POETRY EDITOR Lois P. Jones

WORCESTER POLYTECHINIC INSTITUTE PROJECT Audrey Berner Sarah Love

ASSOCIATE POETRY EDITOR Gregory Dunne HEARTWORK Jennifer Teeter RAMBLER-AT-LARGE Robert Brady ART DIRECTOR Hirisha Mehta EDITORIAL DESIGN John Einarsen, Hirisha Mehta, Daniel Sofer, Tasha Staton CONSULTING EDITOR Mizuho Toyoshima TRANSLATION Hiroko Kawano Kyoko Yoshioka

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS John Ashburne, Ty Billman, Winifred Bird, Everett Brown, Lauren W. Deutsch, Jean Downey, Kazuaki Egashira, Codi Hauka, Marc P. Keane, Sachiko Matsuyama, Vinita Ramani, Leza Lowitz, Kathy Arlyn Sokol, Edward J. Taylor, Robert Fouser, Jeffrey Irish, Eric Johnston, Alex Ting, Robert van Koesveld, Yen Nie Yong Kyoto Journal is published by Ippan Shadan Houjin Kyoto Journal Board of Directors Lucinda Ping Cowing Lauren W. Deutsch John Einarsen Susan Pavloska Ken Rodgers Masao Sugiyama

GENERAL ENQUIRIES contact@kyotojournal.org SALES, ADVERTISING & DONATIONS sales@kyotojournal.org PRESS/PUBLICITY outreach@kyotojournal.org SUBMISSIONS submissions@kyotojournal.org PRINTING BY SUNM COLOR CO., LTD. (PRINT ISSUES) PRINTING MEISTER Katsumi Matsui PRINTING CREW Yasushi Hasegawa Kouhei Kawakatsu PRINTING COORDINATORS Kazuo Yoshida Takashi Ohsaka Thought-provoking articles on Japan and Asia are invited. KJ is a volunteer-based, non-profit publication; contributors receive a free issue and special discounts on subsequent issues. Please review our submissions guidelines.

www.kyotojournal.org

PROOFREADERS Anna Mehta, Madison McCray

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RAMBLE ROBERT BRADY

the point of when I was fascinated by the streetcar, the old-fashioned trolley in the yard, trying to grasp its meaning the same way I used to try with religion, say, or a banknote, or life itself, at a stretch but to watch the trolley through the window I had to hold the door open with one foot so that all the rainbow karma-shapes could float freely outside and be of some use, instead of just floating and frustrating around the innocent room. While the luminous fruits floated silent out the door I studied the trolley, the wheelless trolley painted those old-fashioned festive colors orange and yellow, red and blue, pastels now, thanks to time, but still the happy sunburst patterns— floating just a foot or so above the healthy summer lawn, the shimmering car blundering this way and that as though there were a tyro at the tiller, learning to learn. Like life it was, with no one driving. No one riding, either—wherever it might go in time— getting the hang of motion all by itself, —why it was there is the same question— We all have to learn how to take shape and make use. Thus the need for karma, in its many forms and colors. I almost felt the point of when, that time was always trying to be all about.

ROBERT BRADY, KJ’s Rambler-at-Large, has contributed to almost every issue since we started publication back in 1987. This poem is from his forthcoming collection of new poems, Foxdance. Other books, currently available, include The Big Elsewhere, Build Your Own Dog, and Langdon Chronicles.

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JOJAKKO-JI, ARASHIYAMA. PHOTOGRAPH BY DANIEL SOFER


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