Hark! The haiku angels sing
28th December 2010
Japanese pear for
the first day of Christmas – no
partridges in stock.
What are turtle doves?
On the second day, I give
two turtles diving.
On the third day, three
yakitori skewers. The
French hens have been grilled.
On the fourth day, four
calling birds – I hear the
gulls migrating through.
Five golden mikan!
For my own true love, I would
peel five oranges.
On the sixth day of
Christmas, six days to lie in –
who gets enough sleep?
On the seventh day,
nabe stew for the cold:
seven pots a-stewing.
Eight maids a-milking…
Shall we bring a cow to a
Tokyo maid café?
Nine taiko drummers
drum on the ninth day – will a
Kodo CD do?
The 10th day: 10 pies
are a-piping hot. Hurray
for mince pie imports.
Eleven ladies
dancing – the budget may stretch
as far as geisha.
Twelve hearts a-leaping
Six pairs of lovers and an
EKG machine.
On the twelfth day of
Christmas, this I’ll give to thee:
twelve hearts a-leaping
eleven geisha
dancing, 10 pies a-piping,
nine taiko drummers
eight meido milking
seven nabe stewing, six
days to lie in, five
gold mikan! Four gulls
migrating, three chicken skewers,
two turtles dive
and a pear in a
partridge-free tree. (Those mikan
are peeled, by the way.)
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Monday, December 06, 2010
Just the tip of the photo iceberg
7th December 2010
Eikando, a temple in the eastern hills of Kyoto. The sun was out, the sky was blue and the trees so bright they did not seem real.
A more unusual variety of the Japanese maple. At least, I think it's a Japanese maple.
The more usual kind of maple. The colouring, though, isn't.
Huge carp. (Please use leaves in pond as scale reference.)
Stopping for tea and dumplings. On the sign advertising the dumplings, the first character of dango is written with a circle rather than the usual rectangle.
The great gate of the Nanzen-ji temple complex. Another popular spot for viewing autumn leaves.
Jojakko-ji, a temple on the other side of the city. I got there a little past the peak so most of the leaves were on the ground. But that made it easier to see things like this pagoda...
...and these persimmons the size of grapes. Besides, fallen leaves make for a good picture too.
Though not perhaps for the person who has to sweep them up.
Outside Anraku-ji, a little temple in the Higashiyama area, not far from Nanzen-ji.
Red, orange, yellow and green - the better part of a rainbow - in the same tree.
As you wait for a shot of the main gate without people in it, you can feel yourself ageing. But it's nothing some cake won't cure.
7th December 2010
Eikando, a temple in the eastern hills of Kyoto. The sun was out, the sky was blue and the trees so bright they did not seem real.
A more unusual variety of the Japanese maple. At least, I think it's a Japanese maple.
The more usual kind of maple. The colouring, though, isn't.
Huge carp. (Please use leaves in pond as scale reference.)
Stopping for tea and dumplings. On the sign advertising the dumplings, the first character of dango is written with a circle rather than the usual rectangle.
The great gate of the Nanzen-ji temple complex. Another popular spot for viewing autumn leaves.
Jojakko-ji, a temple on the other side of the city. I got there a little past the peak so most of the leaves were on the ground. But that made it easier to see things like this pagoda...
...and these persimmons the size of grapes. Besides, fallen leaves make for a good picture too.
Though not perhaps for the person who has to sweep them up.
Outside Anraku-ji, a little temple in the Higashiyama area, not far from Nanzen-ji.
Red, orange, yellow and green - the better part of a rainbow - in the same tree.
As you wait for a shot of the main gate without people in it, you can feel yourself ageing. But it's nothing some cake won't cure.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
The wealth of toddlers
3rd December 2010
I met him two years ago but since we live in different countries, I see him only when I visit Singapore.
He is different each time. And now that he is two years old, young Jordy has more hair than he did when we first met.
He has two homes – Singapore and New Zealand, where his father was born. He went there for the first time when he was 15 months old; the holiday photos show him chasing lambs bigger than he was.
Though he’s only two, he meets the world at a run. He suffers his hand to be held only at road crossings: a compromise reached with his parents.
Though he’s only two, he has already met love. In his crib are Hob the Hedgehog, Humdy the Camel, Sheepie and Jolly Bob, a dreadlocked sheep named for Bob Marley. He says goodnight to them before he goes to bed. Sometimes, he kisses them. But he always goes to sleep hugging Sheepie, whose white hair has turned grey from a boy’s fierce love.
Though only two, he already knows loss. One afternoon, his mother took him to Keppel Marina, where she was meeting friends. They let their children play on the grass. As usual, Jordy was the one running furthest ahead.
He wasn’t alone; he had a favourite toy – a small purple ball – with him. But as he ran, the ball somehow slipped out of his hand. It rolled over the lawn, through the railings and into the sea.
His grief hit Shakespearean heights. ‘Purple ball…purple ball… Ocean! No more! Mummy, no more! Ocean! Purple baaaaall!’
Even now, he sometimes cries, ‘Purple ball!’, and wanders around, looking lost. He has eight other balls including three rugby ones – small, medium and large – but he cannot forget the purple.
He also has wheels, though he is only two. His fleet includes trains, planes, ambulances, tricycles, helicopters and many different cars of many different sizes. But he has just one motorcycle. His mother keeps it in reserve, giving it to him when she needs him to sit still for a while. For him, this means anything more than eight minutes. She calls the motorcycle – no longer than an adult’s finger – ‘the secret weapon’.
Though only two, he already has a library. Most of his favourite books have to do with vehicles. He can tell the difference between a backhoe loader, a wheel loader and a dump truck. And this he does though he’s only two.
Though only two, he already has a sense of humour. Sometimes, when his mother is dressing him, he will lift his hand to the sleeve opening, slip it in – and whip it away at the last minute, laughing.
Though only two, he already speaks more than one language. At a café, two waitresses from China were charmed into coming over to play with him. His mother tried to get him to say thank you. He looked up at one of them and said: ‘Da xiang.’
The waitress took it well but though he’s only two, he needs to learn that a guy who calls a girl an elephant should not expect to get away with it.
Though only two, he already knows the meaning of the word community. Not one for crowds, he has trouble being in a small space with strangers. He was in the lift with his mother one day when a neighbour entered. He arched back so violently he almost threw himself out of his mother’s arms.
Now, whenever they are in the lift and it is about to stop for more people, they will have a certain conversation.
‘What do we have to do?’ his mother will ask.
‘Share the lift.’
‘And why do we have to share the lift?’
If he does not respond, she will prompt him with, ‘Because we live in a – ?’
‘Community.’
His voice will be quavering but he has learned, though only two, that community means having to share.
Though only two, he is already preparing for bigger things. This is how he practises going to work: he takes a red bag from his bedroom – the bag holds a toy lizard – and leaves, saying, ‘Bye bye, see you later’. He stays outside the bedroom for five seconds, then pushes the door open, steps inside and beams.
Though only two, he appreciates the wider world. His parents took him to Bali a few months ago. He enjoyed the new people, the new food and the unfamiliar furniture. When he got into taxis, he would say, ‘Amazing Bali!’
Though only two, he already knows lyricism. His poetry is urgent, a hand open to the moment.
We were at the playground near his block of flats when a plane rumbled overhead. He checked to see if I was listening. ‘Aeroplane hiding in the clouds,’ he said. Then, ‘See purple flower’.
And if someone who’s only two has all this, can do all this, how much more you must have, how much more you must be able to do.
Exploring a Bali hotel room with a train.
3rd December 2010
I met him two years ago but since we live in different countries, I see him only when I visit Singapore.
He is different each time. And now that he is two years old, young Jordy has more hair than he did when we first met.
He has two homes – Singapore and New Zealand, where his father was born. He went there for the first time when he was 15 months old; the holiday photos show him chasing lambs bigger than he was.
Though he’s only two, he meets the world at a run. He suffers his hand to be held only at road crossings: a compromise reached with his parents.
Though he’s only two, he has already met love. In his crib are Hob the Hedgehog, Humdy the Camel, Sheepie and Jolly Bob, a dreadlocked sheep named for Bob Marley. He says goodnight to them before he goes to bed. Sometimes, he kisses them. But he always goes to sleep hugging Sheepie, whose white hair has turned grey from a boy’s fierce love.
Though only two, he already knows loss. One afternoon, his mother took him to Keppel Marina, where she was meeting friends. They let their children play on the grass. As usual, Jordy was the one running furthest ahead.
He wasn’t alone; he had a favourite toy – a small purple ball – with him. But as he ran, the ball somehow slipped out of his hand. It rolled over the lawn, through the railings and into the sea.
His grief hit Shakespearean heights. ‘Purple ball…purple ball… Ocean! No more! Mummy, no more! Ocean! Purple baaaaall!’
Even now, he sometimes cries, ‘Purple ball!’, and wanders around, looking lost. He has eight other balls including three rugby ones – small, medium and large – but he cannot forget the purple.
He also has wheels, though he is only two. His fleet includes trains, planes, ambulances, tricycles, helicopters and many different cars of many different sizes. But he has just one motorcycle. His mother keeps it in reserve, giving it to him when she needs him to sit still for a while. For him, this means anything more than eight minutes. She calls the motorcycle – no longer than an adult’s finger – ‘the secret weapon’.
Though only two, he already has a library. Most of his favourite books have to do with vehicles. He can tell the difference between a backhoe loader, a wheel loader and a dump truck. And this he does though he’s only two.
Though only two, he already has a sense of humour. Sometimes, when his mother is dressing him, he will lift his hand to the sleeve opening, slip it in – and whip it away at the last minute, laughing.
Though only two, he already speaks more than one language. At a café, two waitresses from China were charmed into coming over to play with him. His mother tried to get him to say thank you. He looked up at one of them and said: ‘Da xiang.’
The waitress took it well but though he’s only two, he needs to learn that a guy who calls a girl an elephant should not expect to get away with it.
Though only two, he already knows the meaning of the word community. Not one for crowds, he has trouble being in a small space with strangers. He was in the lift with his mother one day when a neighbour entered. He arched back so violently he almost threw himself out of his mother’s arms.
Now, whenever they are in the lift and it is about to stop for more people, they will have a certain conversation.
‘What do we have to do?’ his mother will ask.
‘Share the lift.’
‘And why do we have to share the lift?’
If he does not respond, she will prompt him with, ‘Because we live in a – ?’
‘Community.’
His voice will be quavering but he has learned, though only two, that community means having to share.
Though only two, he is already preparing for bigger things. This is how he practises going to work: he takes a red bag from his bedroom – the bag holds a toy lizard – and leaves, saying, ‘Bye bye, see you later’. He stays outside the bedroom for five seconds, then pushes the door open, steps inside and beams.
Though only two, he appreciates the wider world. His parents took him to Bali a few months ago. He enjoyed the new people, the new food and the unfamiliar furniture. When he got into taxis, he would say, ‘Amazing Bali!’
Though only two, he already knows lyricism. His poetry is urgent, a hand open to the moment.
We were at the playground near his block of flats when a plane rumbled overhead. He checked to see if I was listening. ‘Aeroplane hiding in the clouds,’ he said. Then, ‘See purple flower’.
And if someone who’s only two has all this, can do all this, how much more you must have, how much more you must be able to do.
Exploring a Bali hotel room with a train.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Twilight of the Bard
16th November 2010
It's not often you can read vampire novels and call it research.
...
Halloween may be over but the undead are alive and well in cinemas all over Japan.
Eclipse, the third in the Twilight vampire saga, opened here two Saturdays ago – good news for me because I’d caught the first two instalments on a recent flight from Singapore but only a fraction of the third. The plane had to land or something.
I was, like, I totally have to find out what happens next!
A recap for those unfamiliar with the Twilight world: On June 2, 2003, US housewife Stephenie Meyer had a dream of a vampire and a human in a meadow. The vampire, though drawn to the girl, was explaining how hard it was for him not to kill her.
The desire to learn if he would pushed Meyer to turn her dream into a book. The stakes are raised: Edward, a reluctant vampire, subsists on animal blood and to attack Bella would make him the monster he tries not to be. The venom of his bite will also turn her into a vampire – a damned creature unable to sleep, dream or change. To risk her soul just so he won’t lose her, he says, would be the most selfish thing he could ever do.
The romance – complicated with the introduction of werewolves – runs over four novels that have become a juggernaut capable of taking on the Harry Potter phenomenon.
But not everyone’s pleased; critics have accused the series of everything from bad writing to driving a stake through the heart of feminism. (Though presumably the latter criticism doesn’t cover the werewolves wandering around with their shirts off when in human form.)
Maybe a change of packaging will make the tale more palatable to its detractors. So here’s Twilight in the words – more or less – of another writer who also became rich and famous for stories about love and conflict.
(Prologue)
Chorus:
Two races, both alike in dignity,
In fair Washington, where we lay our scene;
From species grudge break to new mutiny,
Where human blood sets undead eyes a-gleam.
From the fangs and loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose meadow adventures and sunlight woes
Do with their love bury their species’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of the critics’ rage,
Which even shirtless werewolves couldn’t remove,
Is now the traffic of the franchise stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, the special edition DVD shall strive to mend.
(Bella realises Edward is a vampire. She wrestles with this.)
Bella:
O Edward, Edward! wherefore art thou Edward?
Deny thy blood thirst and refuse thy fangs;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a human.
(She doesn’t wrestle for long. Edward, on the other hand, does. Should he sink his teeth into her so she joins him in vampire eternity? Or should he keep her from becoming a monster? He himself joined the undead only because an older vampire, Carlisle, saw no other way to save the human Edward from an illness.)
Edward:
To bite, or not to bite: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous desire,
Or to open arms to a sea of longing,
And by surrendering, take life? To die: to sleep;
Then more; for by a sleep to say I end
The heart-beat and the thousand natural shifts
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be fear’d. To die, to sleep;
To wake: no more to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For after that sleep that no dreams will come
If I should tear off her mortal coil,
Must give me pause: there’s the reason
That makes a misery of immortal life;
For she would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppression of age, the small town’s boundaries,
The pangs of frustration, a balking lover’s delay,
If she but knew the barren quietus made
With venomous teeth. She would her burdens bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
If dread of this world were set by rotted death,
The discovered country from whose bourn
I have returned. This stiffens my will
And makes me rather bear those ills I have
Than push her to others that she knows not of.
Thus conscience may make a Carlisle of me
After all; and thus inflamed temptation
May take on the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of rapacity and damnation
Could thus see their currents turn awry,
And regain the grace, nearly lost, of principle.
Which way will Edward decide? The answer’s in Breaking Dawn, the final novel in the series. It’s the one with the cover picture of a chessboard, a blood-red pawn and, in front of it, a pale queen.
...
(Originals here and here. I hope that sound isn't the sound of one corpse turning.)
16th November 2010
It's not often you can read vampire novels and call it research.
...
Halloween may be over but the undead are alive and well in cinemas all over Japan.
Eclipse, the third in the Twilight vampire saga, opened here two Saturdays ago – good news for me because I’d caught the first two instalments on a recent flight from Singapore but only a fraction of the third. The plane had to land or something.
I was, like, I totally have to find out what happens next!
A recap for those unfamiliar with the Twilight world: On June 2, 2003, US housewife Stephenie Meyer had a dream of a vampire and a human in a meadow. The vampire, though drawn to the girl, was explaining how hard it was for him not to kill her.
The desire to learn if he would pushed Meyer to turn her dream into a book. The stakes are raised: Edward, a reluctant vampire, subsists on animal blood and to attack Bella would make him the monster he tries not to be. The venom of his bite will also turn her into a vampire – a damned creature unable to sleep, dream or change. To risk her soul just so he won’t lose her, he says, would be the most selfish thing he could ever do.
The romance – complicated with the introduction of werewolves – runs over four novels that have become a juggernaut capable of taking on the Harry Potter phenomenon.
But not everyone’s pleased; critics have accused the series of everything from bad writing to driving a stake through the heart of feminism. (Though presumably the latter criticism doesn’t cover the werewolves wandering around with their shirts off when in human form.)
Maybe a change of packaging will make the tale more palatable to its detractors. So here’s Twilight in the words – more or less – of another writer who also became rich and famous for stories about love and conflict.
(Prologue)
Chorus:
Two races, both alike in dignity,
In fair Washington, where we lay our scene;
From species grudge break to new mutiny,
Where human blood sets undead eyes a-gleam.
From the fangs and loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;
Whose meadow adventures and sunlight woes
Do with their love bury their species’ strife.
The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,
And the continuance of the critics’ rage,
Which even shirtless werewolves couldn’t remove,
Is now the traffic of the franchise stage;
The which if you with patient ears attend,
What here shall miss, the special edition DVD shall strive to mend.
(Bella realises Edward is a vampire. She wrestles with this.)
Bella:
O Edward, Edward! wherefore art thou Edward?
Deny thy blood thirst and refuse thy fangs;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a human.
(She doesn’t wrestle for long. Edward, on the other hand, does. Should he sink his teeth into her so she joins him in vampire eternity? Or should he keep her from becoming a monster? He himself joined the undead only because an older vampire, Carlisle, saw no other way to save the human Edward from an illness.)
Edward:
To bite, or not to bite: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous desire,
Or to open arms to a sea of longing,
And by surrendering, take life? To die: to sleep;
Then more; for by a sleep to say I end
The heart-beat and the thousand natural shifts
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be fear’d. To die, to sleep;
To wake: no more to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For after that sleep that no dreams will come
If I should tear off her mortal coil,
Must give me pause: there’s the reason
That makes a misery of immortal life;
For she would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppression of age, the small town’s boundaries,
The pangs of frustration, a balking lover’s delay,
If she but knew the barren quietus made
With venomous teeth. She would her burdens bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life,
If dread of this world were set by rotted death,
The discovered country from whose bourn
I have returned. This stiffens my will
And makes me rather bear those ills I have
Than push her to others that she knows not of.
Thus conscience may make a Carlisle of me
After all; and thus inflamed temptation
May take on the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of rapacity and damnation
Could thus see their currents turn awry,
And regain the grace, nearly lost, of principle.
Which way will Edward decide? The answer’s in Breaking Dawn, the final novel in the series. It’s the one with the cover picture of a chessboard, a blood-red pawn and, in front of it, a pale queen.
...
(Originals here and here. I hope that sound isn't the sound of one corpse turning.)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Old fashion
1st October 2010
At the Nishijin Textile Center in Kyoto, kimono fashion shows are held a number of times a day, almost every day of the year. The photos below were taken at one show.
Worn traditionally, a kimono has no buttons, clasps, zips or velcro. Everything is held together by fabric or cords: the wide obi belt, the obijime cord over it, the obiage sash that rides at the top of the obi and holds it up, and the unseen koshihimo sashes under all of them. (A koshihimo is used to create the fold at the hips - a feature not seen when males wear kimono.)
The little flowers in the back - the only adornment on this kimono - play off the roses in the obi.
The furisode - which can be translated as swinging sleeves - has the longest sleeves of all the kinds of kimono. It is worn by girls and young single women on formal occasions such as Coming of Age Day and the first shrine visit of the year.
Another furisode, less formal-looking than the one above. Note how the model brings one foot in front of the other rather than walking with feet set in the usual hip width.
A sheer kimono for the warmer months. The obi has a design of Heian aristocrats. The slight bulge at the top of the obi is due to the obi makura - a little pillow slipped into the fold to support and give shape to the obi. The makura is tied on, just like everything else.
An obi can be luxurious...
...or subtle.
The otaiko musubi - drum knot - is probably the most common way to tie a woman's obi. Here are two variations:
The obi age - the sash above the obi - is yet another indicator of the wearer's marital status. In a young unmarried woman's ensemble, more of the obi age is allowed to show (see furisode pictures above). Below, the sash is tucked discreetly into the obi, revealing just enough to accent the green at the ends of the sleeves, in the obi and in the lining of the kimono.
The subtle circles in the kimono fabric below are a theme picked up and developed by the riceball design of the obi. A well-considered kimono ensemble offers a wealth of details to be decoded and enjoyed.
Flowers - organic handbags.
1st October 2010
At the Nishijin Textile Center in Kyoto, kimono fashion shows are held a number of times a day, almost every day of the year. The photos below were taken at one show.
Worn traditionally, a kimono has no buttons, clasps, zips or velcro. Everything is held together by fabric or cords: the wide obi belt, the obijime cord over it, the obiage sash that rides at the top of the obi and holds it up, and the unseen koshihimo sashes under all of them. (A koshihimo is used to create the fold at the hips - a feature not seen when males wear kimono.)
The little flowers in the back - the only adornment on this kimono - play off the roses in the obi.
The furisode - which can be translated as swinging sleeves - has the longest sleeves of all the kinds of kimono. It is worn by girls and young single women on formal occasions such as Coming of Age Day and the first shrine visit of the year.
Another furisode, less formal-looking than the one above. Note how the model brings one foot in front of the other rather than walking with feet set in the usual hip width.
A sheer kimono for the warmer months. The obi has a design of Heian aristocrats. The slight bulge at the top of the obi is due to the obi makura - a little pillow slipped into the fold to support and give shape to the obi. The makura is tied on, just like everything else.
An obi can be luxurious...
...or subtle.
The otaiko musubi - drum knot - is probably the most common way to tie a woman's obi. Here are two variations:
The obi age - the sash above the obi - is yet another indicator of the wearer's marital status. In a young unmarried woman's ensemble, more of the obi age is allowed to show (see furisode pictures above). Below, the sash is tucked discreetly into the obi, revealing just enough to accent the green at the ends of the sleeves, in the obi and in the lining of the kimono.
The subtle circles in the kimono fabric below are a theme picked up and developed by the riceball design of the obi. A well-considered kimono ensemble offers a wealth of details to be decoded and enjoyed.
Flowers - organic handbags.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Harvest moon haiku
26th September 2010
A little late but here's one for the Mid-Autumn Festival, or Jugoya - Fifteenth Night - as it's known in Japan.
Boy cradles a lantern
under a sky with no moon
he must have borrowed it.
26th September 2010
A little late but here's one for the Mid-Autumn Festival, or Jugoya - Fifteenth Night - as it's known in Japan.
Boy cradles a lantern
under a sky with no moon
he must have borrowed it.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The unanswerables
22nd September 2010
On Monday, the BBC website carried a story about the top 10 hardest questions to answer, according to search engine Ask Jeeves.
Are they really that hard? Let's see:
1. What is the meaning of life?
A: 42.
2. Is there a God?
A: Is there a you?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
A: Define fun.
4. What is the best diet?
A: Define best.
5. Is there anybody out there?
A: Boo!
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
A: Not me.
7. What is love?
A: Something better than the best diet in the world.
8. What is the secret to happiness?
A: A bad memory.
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
A: Well, go ask him.
10. How long will I live?
A: You know the answer to that better than I do.
There. Piece of mochi.
22nd September 2010
On Monday, the BBC website carried a story about the top 10 hardest questions to answer, according to search engine Ask Jeeves.
Are they really that hard? Let's see:
1. What is the meaning of life?
A: 42.
2. Is there a God?
A: Is there a you?
3. Do blondes have more fun?
A: Define fun.
4. What is the best diet?
A: Define best.
5. Is there anybody out there?
A: Boo!
6. Who is the most famous person in the world?
A: Not me.
7. What is love?
A: Something better than the best diet in the world.
8. What is the secret to happiness?
A: A bad memory.
9. Did Tony Soprano die?
A: Well, go ask him.
10. How long will I live?
A: You know the answer to that better than I do.
There. Piece of mochi.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Satoshi Kon says goodbye
18th September 2010
To call Satoshi Kon an anime director is like calling the Beatles a band: accurate but completely inadequate.
With animation for a sledgehammer, he has broken down the walls between worlds: fantasy has become real and reality, fantastic.
A truck pulls alongside a woman riding a scooter. The truck bears a painting of a girl on a plane. The woman is no longer on the scooter – she’s astride the plane, it flies off the side of the truck, over a night city. The plane is gone, the woman is gliding through a billboard, in a computer screen, out of the screen…only she’s not a woman but a character’s alter ego.
You can’t look away for a second if you’re to have any hope of keeping up.
But for all the wild invention of Kon’s visuals, his focus is squarely on humanity. Whether portraying the history of Japanese cinema, Tokyo homeless or technology that takes you into someone’s dreams, his works are stories about people, how they lose and find their way.
And his standing as one of the great storytellers of the modern age rests on just four films and one television series.
There is a fifth movie – Yume Miru Kikai (Dreaming Machine) – but he will never finish it because he died of pancreatic cancer last month. He was 46.
On Aug 25, a day after he died, a long blog post entitled ‘Sayonara’ appeared on his website. It’s a message from an award-winning artist who, at the height of his creative powers, is told that he has only months to live.
The pain, the prospect of leaving those he loves, the despair at a story unfinished: he never hides how hard any of it is. But he also tells us – repeatedly – that he is fortunate, blessed, grateful. Arigatou appears over and over again in the piece.
This is a translation:
May 18 this year – impossible to forget.
A doctor from Musashino Red Cross Hospital delivered this news: ‘Pancreatic cancer, an advanced stage. It’s spread all over to the bones. You have at most half a year left.’
My wife and I listened to this, unable to take in this twist of fate that seemed to make no sense at all.
I’ve always thought that I could drop dead at any moment and if I did, it couldn’t be helped. But this – it was just too sudden.
You could say the signs were there though. For the past two or three months, I’ve had intense pain in my back and the joints of my legs. My right leg grew weak and I had trouble walking. I started visiting an acupuncturist and chiropractor but it didn’t help. And after being examined with MRI, PET-CT and other high precision scanners, the unexpected announcement of the number of days I had left.
It was if death had suddenly appeared behind me – I could do nothing about it.
After the diagnosis, my wife and I looked for ways to extend my life. Desperately. We also gained the support of reliable friends and strong allies. I rejected medication for the cancer and tried to put my faith in a world view different from the norm. It seemed in keeping with someone who has always rejected what is common and normal. I’ve never felt like I had a place in the crowd. That might as well be the case with medical care too…
‘Why don’t I try living according to the beliefs I chose?’
But just as when you’re creating something, you can’t always make things go as you wish.
The illness progressed every day.
Having said all that, as a member of society, I do subscribe to at least half of what it decrees. For one thing, I pay my taxes. I’m hardly a fine, upstanding citizen but I am a full member of society. So apart from doing what I could to lengthen my life given my particular view of the world, I wanted to make the “proper preparations” for death. I couldn’t pull it off though.
Still, one of the things I did manage to do was to, with the help of two trustworthy friends, set up a company to manage the copyrights of my work, for whatever that’s worth.
Another thing was to make a will so that my assets – not that I had much – would pass to my wife without any trouble. Of course, I don’t think a fight will break out over my assets but I wanted to take at least one care away from the wife I’ll leave behind in this world. And it’d also make the one leaving for the other world feel better.
Neither my wife and I are much good at finding out what needs to be done in situations like this and or at paperwork. But wonderful friends got it done for us fast.
Later, when I contracted pneumonia and became critically ill, I signed the last signature on my will and thought, if I die now, well, that’s that.
‘Ah… At last I can die.’
After all, an ambulance had carted me off to Musashino Red Cross Hospital two days before and the day after, I had to be taken back to the same hospital. Naturally, I was thoroughly examined. The diagnosis: pneumonia and fluid accumulating around the lungs. When I asked the doctor point-blank about my prospects, he replied in a businesslike manner, which in a way I was grateful for.
‘Let’s see… One, two days… Even if you recover from this, you probably have until the end of the month at most.’
It’s like he’s telling me the weather forecast, I thought. But the end was pressing in.
That was July 7 – a rather grim Tanabata.
And so I reached this conclusion: I want to die at home.
Even though it might mean a lot of trouble for those around me, I asked them to help me escape so I could go home. And I did, thanks to my wife’s efforts, the hospital, which cooperated even though it acted as if it had given up on me, the great support of other medical facilities, and innumerable coincidences I can think of only as divine intervention. The way everything fell into place was unbelievable. It’s not even as if this was Tokyo Godfathers.
My wife ran around to get me out. For my part, I pleaded with the doctors – ‘Even if I’m at home for a day, no, half a day, I can get something done!’ – then waited alone in that dismal sickroom for death.
It may sound morbid but I thought, maybe it’s not such a bad thing to die.
I had no real reason to think this though perhaps I needed to. I felt so calm I surprised even myself.
But one thought wouldn’t stop bothering me: ‘I just don’t want to die here.’
As I thought this, something came out of the calendar on the wall and started to go round the room. ‘Jeez, a procession from a calendar? Now there’s an original vision.’
It made me smile – even in that situation I was still thinking like I was at work. But it was also then that I might have been closest to dying. Death felt so close by.
But thanks to many people – it was like a miracle – I escaped from the hospital and made it back home, swathed in death and bed sheets.
Dying sucks.
I’d like to point out that I have no criticism of, or ill feelings towards, Musashino Red Cross Hospital, so please don’t misunderstand me.
I just wanted to go home. Home to where I live.
One thing came as a bit of a surprise. It was like a bonus. As I was carried into my living room, I felt as though I was looking at my body from a high point – just like in near-death experiences. It was as if I were hovering a few metres up, right over the entire scene, looking through a wide angle lens. The square bed in the centre of the room seemed unusually large; the me that was wrapped in sheets was laid down in that square. It didn’t look too carefully done but I won’t complain.
So all that was left for me to do was to wait for death in my home.
However.
It appears that I somehow got past the pneumonia.
Wha -?
I sort of had this thought: ‘I forgot to die (laughter)!’
After that, as I kept thinking about death, I felt as though I had already died once. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, the word ‘reborn’ kept flickering.
Energy mysteriously returned to me after that. I really believe that it’s due to, first of all, my wife, those who visited me and shared their strength, the friends who supported me, and the doctors, nurses and care managers.
With the power to live back in me, I couldn’t just lie around. I had to make the most of the extra life granted to me. I decided to try to meet at least one of the responsibilities I was abandoning in this world.
To be honest, I’d told only a few people about the cancer. I didn’t even tell my parents. For reasons to do with work, I kept things quiet. I did want to make an announcement on the Internet about the cancer and keep people updated on my remaining days. But if it had become known that Satoshi Kon was about to die, there would have been repercussions, however small. So I kept those who had a right to know in the dark. I really am sorry for this.
There were so many people I’d have liked to see at least once before I died, even if it was just to greet them. Family, relatives, friends from elementary school and junior high, high school classmates, university buddies, the many people I met in the world of manga with whom I exchanged ideas, those in the world of anime whose desks marched beside mine – they were the people I drank with, competed against and went through thick times and thin with. The countless people I got to know because I became a director, those all around the world who call themselves my fans, friends I made over the Internet.
There were so many I wished I could see (well, there were also those I’d rather not) but I felt that if I did, I’d think, ‘I’ll never see this person again’, and I wouldn’t be able to face death with composure. And though I was better, I had little energy. It would take a great deal to meet people. The more I wanted to see someone, the harder it would be. Talk about irony.
Besides, my lower half was paralysed because the cancer had spread to the bones, which left me prone most of the time. I didn’t want people to see me so wasted away. I wanted most of those who knew me to remember the Satoshi Kon who was alive and well.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to my relatives, friends and all those who knew me. I hope you’ll understand that it was just Satoshi Kon being self-centred again. Because that’s the kind of guy he was, wasn’t he?
When I imagine your faces, smiles and good memories come to me. Thanks to all of you for the great memories. I love the world I lived in. Just being able to think this is a blessing.
The many people I met over the course of my life helped, for good or bad, to make me the person I was. I am thankful for all the encounters. Even though I’ll end up dying in my mid-40s, I’ve accepted it as my fate. In any case, I have so many good memories. To die now – well, all I can say is, there’s nothing that can be done about it. Really.
Though there are many responsibilities that I have no choice but to abandon, I keep thinking about my parents and Madhouse’s [studio co-founder] Maruyama-san: Satoshi Kon’s parents and the anime director’s parent. Though it was rather belated, I had to confess everything to them. I had to beg for their forgiveness.
Maruyama-san came to visit me. As soon as I saw his face, I could hold back neither my tears nor my sense of shame. ‘I’m sorry, ending up in such a state…’ Maruyama-san said nothing; he just shook his head, took my hands and held them.
Gratitude filled me. Like a wild wave, thankfulness – no, joy – that I’d been able to work with this person swept over me. I might have had no right to think so but I felt like I’d been forgiven.
My greatest regret is the film Yume Miru Kikai.
I’m also worried about its staff because the work we poured so much of ourselves into may never reach an audience. After all, Satoshi Kon carried the story, the script, characters, settings, storyboards, the kind of music – he was the one who envisioned it all.
Of course, I shared many things with the animation and art directors and the staff but the film’s basically something that can only be understood and made by Satoshi Kon. You could say that it’s my fault for having things turn out this way but I did try to explain and share my vision. Still, I feel that I’ve failed. To the entire staff, my heartfelt apologies for my irresponsibility.
I hope you’ll be able to understand. After all, Satoshi Kon was ‘that kind of guy’ and maybe that’s why he could come up with anime that was a bit different, a bit odd.
It may sound like an arrogant thing to say but I hope that you’ll put it down to the cancer and forgive me.
It’s not like I’ve just been lying around waiting to die. With whatever I have, I’ve been trying to figure out a way for the work to continue even after I’m gone. But it was no good.
When I told Maruyama-san about my fears for Yume Miru Kikai, he said: ‘It’s all right. We’ll do whatever it takes so don’t worry.’
I cried.
So hard.
In my previous films, I didn’t do everything I should have when it came to the budget and production matters but I always had Maruyama-san to come sort things out.
And it’s the same now. I haven’t grown at all.
I was able to talk to Maruyama-san at length. He made me feel – just a little – that Satoshi Kon’s talents and skills were of worth to his industry.
‘It’s a shame – if only you could leave us your talent.’
If Madhouse’s Maruyama-san says that, I can leave for the underworld with a bit of confidence. Of course, I know without being told that it’s a pity to lose an ability to produce strange ideas and detailed drawings but it really can’t be helped. This comes from my heart: I am grateful to Maruyama-san for enabling me to take these things into the wider world.
Thank you so much. Satoshi Kon the animation director was happy.
Telling my parents was – hard.
I’d wanted to visit them in Sapporo to tell them about the cancer while I still could but my illness progressed so frustratingly fast. I ended up having to break the news to them over the phone from a hospital room where I lay close to death.
‘I’m in the last stages of cancer and about to die. Dad, Mum, I was really fortunate to have been born to you. Thank you.’
It must have been a great shock to them but I really was convinced that I was going to die soon.
On the contrary, I went home and somehow overcame the pneumonia crisis.
It was then that I decided to see my parents. They wanted to see me too. Though it would be hard, though I didn’t have the strength, I wanted to see their faces. I wanted to thank them in person for bringing me into this world.
I’ve been blessed.
But I’ve lived a little faster than most people and for that I must apologise to my wife, my parents and those I love.
Indulging my selfishness, my parents left Sapporo the next day to see me. I’ll never forget what my mother said when she laid eyes on my bedridden self. ‘I’m so sorry for not having given you a stronger body!’
I was flabbergasted.
I could spend only a short time with my parents but it was enough. I had a feeling that if I could just see their faces, everything would be understood – and it really was so. Dad, Mum, thank you. It’s been my good fortune – above all else – to have received life as your child. My heart, so full of memories and gratitude. Happiness is important but for having taught me to appreciate happiness, I am more grateful to you than I can ever say.
Thank you so very much.
It’s the height of filial impiety to leave before one’s parents but in the past 10 years or so, I’ve been able to stretch myself as an animation director, accomplish my goals – and met a reception that wasn’t too bad. It’s a shame the films didn’t really make much money. Still, I think that what they received was fitting. I feel like I’ve lived more intensely than others – particularly in the last 10 years – but I think my parents understood what was in my heart.
It was a huge weight off my shoulders to be able to speak to my parents and Maruyama-san directly.
Lastly, a word to my wife, whom I’ve leaned on till the end. I worry about you the most.
Since we learned how much time I had left, we’ve wept together so often. We went through terrible days together, wrecked in body and spirit. I can barely describe it. But I somehow made it through those draining, despairing days because of what you said to me right after that pronouncement of death: ‘I’ll walk beside you to the end.’
You kept your word – you stepped over my fears, dealt with the demands that swept in like a whirlwind and learned to look after your husband so quickly. Your deftness touched me.
‘My wife is amazing.’
What am I going on about at this stage, you say? No. I’ve always thought this but now more so than ever before. I believe that after I die, you’ll do a great job of sending me off. Come to think of it, after we got married, it’s been ‘work, work’ every day and it’s only with the cancer that I’ve really been able to spend time at home. What a waste.
But you understood that I was someone who buried himself in work and that was where my talents lay. You stayed by my side anyway. I’ve been fortunate, truly I have. Whether it’s to do with living or dying, I can’t thank you enough. Thank you.
There are, of course, other matters – more than I can count – weighing on my mind but there needs to be an end to things.
Finally, to Dr H, who agreed to look after me at home until the end even though this isn’t done much these days, and to his wife, nurse K-san, I would like to convey my deepest gratitude. There are few things as inconvenient as giving medical care in the home but you tried all kinds of ways to take away the pain of cancer and make the journey towards death as comfortable as possible. How much you helped me. What’s more, though you had a troublesome and arrogant patient, you not only did far more than your jobs required but also treated me and my wife with such humanity. I can’t say how much you supported, saved us. It’s beyond comprehension. I am so, so grateful.
Lastly – and this really is the end – I have to mention two friends who, ever since that death pronouncement in mid-May, have been extraordinary in their mental support and help both in my personal and professional affairs. To T, member of the company KON’STONE and a friend since high school, and producer H, my heart-felt thanks. Thank you – I really mean it. My wife and I are so much in your debt that I can’t find the right words in my limited vocabulary to express my gratitude.
Without the two of you, we would have found it so much harder to face my death. I am indebted to you for everything. And I’m sorry to be making yet another request but could you help my wife see me off?
If you do, I’ll be able to board that flight with peace of mind.
From my heart, I ask this.
To those of you who’ve kept me company throughout this long piece, many thanks. With gratitude for all that is good in this world, I put down my pen.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving first.
Satoshi Kon
The original blog post can be found here. Writer Makiko Itoh was probably the first to translate the whole piece into English and make it available online. Thanks to her efforts, those who can't read Japanese have had the chance to hear Satoshi Kon's last words.
18th September 2010
To call Satoshi Kon an anime director is like calling the Beatles a band: accurate but completely inadequate.
With animation for a sledgehammer, he has broken down the walls between worlds: fantasy has become real and reality, fantastic.
A truck pulls alongside a woman riding a scooter. The truck bears a painting of a girl on a plane. The woman is no longer on the scooter – she’s astride the plane, it flies off the side of the truck, over a night city. The plane is gone, the woman is gliding through a billboard, in a computer screen, out of the screen…only she’s not a woman but a character’s alter ego.
You can’t look away for a second if you’re to have any hope of keeping up.
But for all the wild invention of Kon’s visuals, his focus is squarely on humanity. Whether portraying the history of Japanese cinema, Tokyo homeless or technology that takes you into someone’s dreams, his works are stories about people, how they lose and find their way.
And his standing as one of the great storytellers of the modern age rests on just four films and one television series.
There is a fifth movie – Yume Miru Kikai (Dreaming Machine) – but he will never finish it because he died of pancreatic cancer last month. He was 46.
On Aug 25, a day after he died, a long blog post entitled ‘Sayonara’ appeared on his website. It’s a message from an award-winning artist who, at the height of his creative powers, is told that he has only months to live.
The pain, the prospect of leaving those he loves, the despair at a story unfinished: he never hides how hard any of it is. But he also tells us – repeatedly – that he is fortunate, blessed, grateful. Arigatou appears over and over again in the piece.
This is a translation:
May 18 this year – impossible to forget.
A doctor from Musashino Red Cross Hospital delivered this news: ‘Pancreatic cancer, an advanced stage. It’s spread all over to the bones. You have at most half a year left.’
My wife and I listened to this, unable to take in this twist of fate that seemed to make no sense at all.
I’ve always thought that I could drop dead at any moment and if I did, it couldn’t be helped. But this – it was just too sudden.
You could say the signs were there though. For the past two or three months, I’ve had intense pain in my back and the joints of my legs. My right leg grew weak and I had trouble walking. I started visiting an acupuncturist and chiropractor but it didn’t help. And after being examined with MRI, PET-CT and other high precision scanners, the unexpected announcement of the number of days I had left.
It was if death had suddenly appeared behind me – I could do nothing about it.
After the diagnosis, my wife and I looked for ways to extend my life. Desperately. We also gained the support of reliable friends and strong allies. I rejected medication for the cancer and tried to put my faith in a world view different from the norm. It seemed in keeping with someone who has always rejected what is common and normal. I’ve never felt like I had a place in the crowd. That might as well be the case with medical care too…
‘Why don’t I try living according to the beliefs I chose?’
But just as when you’re creating something, you can’t always make things go as you wish.
The illness progressed every day.
Having said all that, as a member of society, I do subscribe to at least half of what it decrees. For one thing, I pay my taxes. I’m hardly a fine, upstanding citizen but I am a full member of society. So apart from doing what I could to lengthen my life given my particular view of the world, I wanted to make the “proper preparations” for death. I couldn’t pull it off though.
Still, one of the things I did manage to do was to, with the help of two trustworthy friends, set up a company to manage the copyrights of my work, for whatever that’s worth.
Another thing was to make a will so that my assets – not that I had much – would pass to my wife without any trouble. Of course, I don’t think a fight will break out over my assets but I wanted to take at least one care away from the wife I’ll leave behind in this world. And it’d also make the one leaving for the other world feel better.
Neither my wife and I are much good at finding out what needs to be done in situations like this and or at paperwork. But wonderful friends got it done for us fast.
Later, when I contracted pneumonia and became critically ill, I signed the last signature on my will and thought, if I die now, well, that’s that.
‘Ah… At last I can die.’
After all, an ambulance had carted me off to Musashino Red Cross Hospital two days before and the day after, I had to be taken back to the same hospital. Naturally, I was thoroughly examined. The diagnosis: pneumonia and fluid accumulating around the lungs. When I asked the doctor point-blank about my prospects, he replied in a businesslike manner, which in a way I was grateful for.
‘Let’s see… One, two days… Even if you recover from this, you probably have until the end of the month at most.’
It’s like he’s telling me the weather forecast, I thought. But the end was pressing in.
That was July 7 – a rather grim Tanabata.
And so I reached this conclusion: I want to die at home.
Even though it might mean a lot of trouble for those around me, I asked them to help me escape so I could go home. And I did, thanks to my wife’s efforts, the hospital, which cooperated even though it acted as if it had given up on me, the great support of other medical facilities, and innumerable coincidences I can think of only as divine intervention. The way everything fell into place was unbelievable. It’s not even as if this was Tokyo Godfathers.
My wife ran around to get me out. For my part, I pleaded with the doctors – ‘Even if I’m at home for a day, no, half a day, I can get something done!’ – then waited alone in that dismal sickroom for death.
It may sound morbid but I thought, maybe it’s not such a bad thing to die.
I had no real reason to think this though perhaps I needed to. I felt so calm I surprised even myself.
But one thought wouldn’t stop bothering me: ‘I just don’t want to die here.’
As I thought this, something came out of the calendar on the wall and started to go round the room. ‘Jeez, a procession from a calendar? Now there’s an original vision.’
It made me smile – even in that situation I was still thinking like I was at work. But it was also then that I might have been closest to dying. Death felt so close by.
But thanks to many people – it was like a miracle – I escaped from the hospital and made it back home, swathed in death and bed sheets.
Dying sucks.
I’d like to point out that I have no criticism of, or ill feelings towards, Musashino Red Cross Hospital, so please don’t misunderstand me.
I just wanted to go home. Home to where I live.
One thing came as a bit of a surprise. It was like a bonus. As I was carried into my living room, I felt as though I was looking at my body from a high point – just like in near-death experiences. It was as if I were hovering a few metres up, right over the entire scene, looking through a wide angle lens. The square bed in the centre of the room seemed unusually large; the me that was wrapped in sheets was laid down in that square. It didn’t look too carefully done but I won’t complain.
So all that was left for me to do was to wait for death in my home.
However.
It appears that I somehow got past the pneumonia.
Wha -?
I sort of had this thought: ‘I forgot to die (laughter)!’
After that, as I kept thinking about death, I felt as though I had already died once. Vaguely, at the back of my mind, the word ‘reborn’ kept flickering.
Energy mysteriously returned to me after that. I really believe that it’s due to, first of all, my wife, those who visited me and shared their strength, the friends who supported me, and the doctors, nurses and care managers.
With the power to live back in me, I couldn’t just lie around. I had to make the most of the extra life granted to me. I decided to try to meet at least one of the responsibilities I was abandoning in this world.
To be honest, I’d told only a few people about the cancer. I didn’t even tell my parents. For reasons to do with work, I kept things quiet. I did want to make an announcement on the Internet about the cancer and keep people updated on my remaining days. But if it had become known that Satoshi Kon was about to die, there would have been repercussions, however small. So I kept those who had a right to know in the dark. I really am sorry for this.
There were so many people I’d have liked to see at least once before I died, even if it was just to greet them. Family, relatives, friends from elementary school and junior high, high school classmates, university buddies, the many people I met in the world of manga with whom I exchanged ideas, those in the world of anime whose desks marched beside mine – they were the people I drank with, competed against and went through thick times and thin with. The countless people I got to know because I became a director, those all around the world who call themselves my fans, friends I made over the Internet.
There were so many I wished I could see (well, there were also those I’d rather not) but I felt that if I did, I’d think, ‘I’ll never see this person again’, and I wouldn’t be able to face death with composure. And though I was better, I had little energy. It would take a great deal to meet people. The more I wanted to see someone, the harder it would be. Talk about irony.
Besides, my lower half was paralysed because the cancer had spread to the bones, which left me prone most of the time. I didn’t want people to see me so wasted away. I wanted most of those who knew me to remember the Satoshi Kon who was alive and well.
So I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to my relatives, friends and all those who knew me. I hope you’ll understand that it was just Satoshi Kon being self-centred again. Because that’s the kind of guy he was, wasn’t he?
When I imagine your faces, smiles and good memories come to me. Thanks to all of you for the great memories. I love the world I lived in. Just being able to think this is a blessing.
The many people I met over the course of my life helped, for good or bad, to make me the person I was. I am thankful for all the encounters. Even though I’ll end up dying in my mid-40s, I’ve accepted it as my fate. In any case, I have so many good memories. To die now – well, all I can say is, there’s nothing that can be done about it. Really.
Though there are many responsibilities that I have no choice but to abandon, I keep thinking about my parents and Madhouse’s [studio co-founder] Maruyama-san: Satoshi Kon’s parents and the anime director’s parent. Though it was rather belated, I had to confess everything to them. I had to beg for their forgiveness.
Maruyama-san came to visit me. As soon as I saw his face, I could hold back neither my tears nor my sense of shame. ‘I’m sorry, ending up in such a state…’ Maruyama-san said nothing; he just shook his head, took my hands and held them.
Gratitude filled me. Like a wild wave, thankfulness – no, joy – that I’d been able to work with this person swept over me. I might have had no right to think so but I felt like I’d been forgiven.
My greatest regret is the film Yume Miru Kikai.
I’m also worried about its staff because the work we poured so much of ourselves into may never reach an audience. After all, Satoshi Kon carried the story, the script, characters, settings, storyboards, the kind of music – he was the one who envisioned it all.
Of course, I shared many things with the animation and art directors and the staff but the film’s basically something that can only be understood and made by Satoshi Kon. You could say that it’s my fault for having things turn out this way but I did try to explain and share my vision. Still, I feel that I’ve failed. To the entire staff, my heartfelt apologies for my irresponsibility.
I hope you’ll be able to understand. After all, Satoshi Kon was ‘that kind of guy’ and maybe that’s why he could come up with anime that was a bit different, a bit odd.
It may sound like an arrogant thing to say but I hope that you’ll put it down to the cancer and forgive me.
It’s not like I’ve just been lying around waiting to die. With whatever I have, I’ve been trying to figure out a way for the work to continue even after I’m gone. But it was no good.
When I told Maruyama-san about my fears for Yume Miru Kikai, he said: ‘It’s all right. We’ll do whatever it takes so don’t worry.’
I cried.
So hard.
In my previous films, I didn’t do everything I should have when it came to the budget and production matters but I always had Maruyama-san to come sort things out.
And it’s the same now. I haven’t grown at all.
I was able to talk to Maruyama-san at length. He made me feel – just a little – that Satoshi Kon’s talents and skills were of worth to his industry.
‘It’s a shame – if only you could leave us your talent.’
If Madhouse’s Maruyama-san says that, I can leave for the underworld with a bit of confidence. Of course, I know without being told that it’s a pity to lose an ability to produce strange ideas and detailed drawings but it really can’t be helped. This comes from my heart: I am grateful to Maruyama-san for enabling me to take these things into the wider world.
Thank you so much. Satoshi Kon the animation director was happy.
Telling my parents was – hard.
I’d wanted to visit them in Sapporo to tell them about the cancer while I still could but my illness progressed so frustratingly fast. I ended up having to break the news to them over the phone from a hospital room where I lay close to death.
‘I’m in the last stages of cancer and about to die. Dad, Mum, I was really fortunate to have been born to you. Thank you.’
It must have been a great shock to them but I really was convinced that I was going to die soon.
On the contrary, I went home and somehow overcame the pneumonia crisis.
It was then that I decided to see my parents. They wanted to see me too. Though it would be hard, though I didn’t have the strength, I wanted to see their faces. I wanted to thank them in person for bringing me into this world.
I’ve been blessed.
But I’ve lived a little faster than most people and for that I must apologise to my wife, my parents and those I love.
Indulging my selfishness, my parents left Sapporo the next day to see me. I’ll never forget what my mother said when she laid eyes on my bedridden self. ‘I’m so sorry for not having given you a stronger body!’
I was flabbergasted.
I could spend only a short time with my parents but it was enough. I had a feeling that if I could just see their faces, everything would be understood – and it really was so. Dad, Mum, thank you. It’s been my good fortune – above all else – to have received life as your child. My heart, so full of memories and gratitude. Happiness is important but for having taught me to appreciate happiness, I am more grateful to you than I can ever say.
Thank you so very much.
It’s the height of filial impiety to leave before one’s parents but in the past 10 years or so, I’ve been able to stretch myself as an animation director, accomplish my goals – and met a reception that wasn’t too bad. It’s a shame the films didn’t really make much money. Still, I think that what they received was fitting. I feel like I’ve lived more intensely than others – particularly in the last 10 years – but I think my parents understood what was in my heart.
It was a huge weight off my shoulders to be able to speak to my parents and Maruyama-san directly.
Lastly, a word to my wife, whom I’ve leaned on till the end. I worry about you the most.
Since we learned how much time I had left, we’ve wept together so often. We went through terrible days together, wrecked in body and spirit. I can barely describe it. But I somehow made it through those draining, despairing days because of what you said to me right after that pronouncement of death: ‘I’ll walk beside you to the end.’
You kept your word – you stepped over my fears, dealt with the demands that swept in like a whirlwind and learned to look after your husband so quickly. Your deftness touched me.
‘My wife is amazing.’
What am I going on about at this stage, you say? No. I’ve always thought this but now more so than ever before. I believe that after I die, you’ll do a great job of sending me off. Come to think of it, after we got married, it’s been ‘work, work’ every day and it’s only with the cancer that I’ve really been able to spend time at home. What a waste.
But you understood that I was someone who buried himself in work and that was where my talents lay. You stayed by my side anyway. I’ve been fortunate, truly I have. Whether it’s to do with living or dying, I can’t thank you enough. Thank you.
There are, of course, other matters – more than I can count – weighing on my mind but there needs to be an end to things.
Finally, to Dr H, who agreed to look after me at home until the end even though this isn’t done much these days, and to his wife, nurse K-san, I would like to convey my deepest gratitude. There are few things as inconvenient as giving medical care in the home but you tried all kinds of ways to take away the pain of cancer and make the journey towards death as comfortable as possible. How much you helped me. What’s more, though you had a troublesome and arrogant patient, you not only did far more than your jobs required but also treated me and my wife with such humanity. I can’t say how much you supported, saved us. It’s beyond comprehension. I am so, so grateful.
Lastly – and this really is the end – I have to mention two friends who, ever since that death pronouncement in mid-May, have been extraordinary in their mental support and help both in my personal and professional affairs. To T, member of the company KON’STONE and a friend since high school, and producer H, my heart-felt thanks. Thank you – I really mean it. My wife and I are so much in your debt that I can’t find the right words in my limited vocabulary to express my gratitude.
Without the two of you, we would have found it so much harder to face my death. I am indebted to you for everything. And I’m sorry to be making yet another request but could you help my wife see me off?
If you do, I’ll be able to board that flight with peace of mind.
From my heart, I ask this.
To those of you who’ve kept me company throughout this long piece, many thanks. With gratitude for all that is good in this world, I put down my pen.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leaving first.
Satoshi Kon
The original blog post can be found here. Writer Makiko Itoh was probably the first to translate the whole piece into English and make it available online. Thanks to her efforts, those who can't read Japanese have had the chance to hear Satoshi Kon's last words.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
What's it like where you are?
9th September 2010
A charming haiku yesterday on the Mainichi Daily News website:
Today's weather report -
Sunny over the pool with gusts of
Small screaming children.
One from Singaporean Michelle Ang. We went to the same school but didn't meet until we moved to the same city.
9th September 2010
A charming haiku yesterday on the Mainichi Daily News website:
Today's weather report -
Sunny over the pool with gusts of
Small screaming children.
One from Singaporean Michelle Ang. We went to the same school but didn't meet until we moved to the same city.
Friday, September 03, 2010
In Kyoto, there's history even on the hoardings
4th Sept 2010
Buildings for the future surrounded by figures from the past.
Two of Sakamoto Ryoma. His wife Oryo was there on the hoardings too.
As were other figures from the Bakumatsu period: Katsu Kaishu, Saigo Takamori and Yamaoka Tesshu (below).
This is based on the photo taken when he looked old, venerable and had cultivated a magnificent beard. But I sort of prefer the picture taken when he was young, square-jawed and looked sideways at the camera with a glint in his eye.
4th Sept 2010
Buildings for the future surrounded by figures from the past.
Two of Sakamoto Ryoma. His wife Oryo was there on the hoardings too.
As were other figures from the Bakumatsu period: Katsu Kaishu, Saigo Takamori and Yamaoka Tesshu (below).
This is based on the photo taken when he looked old, venerable and had cultivated a magnificent beard. But I sort of prefer the picture taken when he was young, square-jawed and looked sideways at the camera with a glint in his eye.
Monday, August 09, 2010
I swear I was just going to look...
9th August 2010
...and maybe invest in a blue obi if the shop had a nice one. Unfortunately, it did.
And then...and then...there was this yukata that went so well with it.
And then...I remembered that I'd been needing zori that could go with a wider range of kimono...and there was this sale going on...
Summer zori - the rattan-like sole material is supposed to make everyone looking at it feel cooler. This could be tricky if your foot is in the way.
But the shop wrapped the zori so nicely. This is harder than it looks - as I discovered when I took the strap covers off then tried to put them back again.
So - yeah. All in all, a bit of a disaster.
P.S. Happy birthday, Singapore. I'll wear the red and white obi some other time.
9th August 2010
...and maybe invest in a blue obi if the shop had a nice one. Unfortunately, it did.
And then...and then...there was this yukata that went so well with it.
And then...I remembered that I'd been needing zori that could go with a wider range of kimono...and there was this sale going on...
Summer zori - the rattan-like sole material is supposed to make everyone looking at it feel cooler. This could be tricky if your foot is in the way.
But the shop wrapped the zori so nicely. This is harder than it looks - as I discovered when I took the strap covers off then tried to put them back again.
So - yeah. All in all, a bit of a disaster.
P.S. Happy birthday, Singapore. I'll wear the red and white obi some other time.
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Football for albatrosses
28th July 2010
During the World Cup, I wanted to ask:
- Why do footballers spit? When you’re sweating, surely you’d want to keep water inside your body?
- Why are goalkeepers the only players with a water bottle within easy reach when they’re also the players who run around the least?
- Why do footballers hold hands with little children when entering the pitch? Should they be bringing minors to a battlefield?
- Has arguing with the referee ever worked?
- In women’s football, do players exchange their jerseys after a match?
- If both teams wore the same strip, would the players still be able to recognise their teammates? Or would they end up passing the ball to the other side?
- Could we organise a game with everyone in the same strip? In the spirit of scientific inquiry?
During the World Cup, I learned that:
- Footballers fall over a lot.
- Players from the other team help them fall.
- Footballers don’t actually need that much help to fall.
- One-touch play does not refer to a player keeling over from one tap by an opponent.
- A fallen footballer can recover surprisingly quickly if the referee’s call goes in his favour. Or if he doesn’t get any attention in the first place. This could have important implications for medical science.
- It’s hard being the goalie. If the ball spills out of your hands and into goal, you will be compared to the worst environmental disaster ever to befall the United States.
- Goalkeepers fall over a lot too.
- They have to fall over without any help.
- Footballers look very different from footballs. But not to members of the opposing team, who take every opportunity to kick both.
- Most handballs are armballs.
- A vuvuzela beside your ear is louder than thousands in the TV.
- Giving someone your sweat-soaked jersey after a match is a friendly gesture, not a request for laundry assistance. And you get a jersey soaked with someone else’s sweat in return. Everybody wins!
- Sometimes, a player wants a jersey so much he doesn’t wait for the match to end but starts pulling at it during play.
- Football enables a man to pat another man’s rear in public without anyone getting punched. Or arrested.
- There is more drama in a month-long tournament than there is in a year-long soap opera. Except that no one in the tournament seems to have shot J.R. Maybe next time.
- When the ball flies into goal, time slows down. This phenomenon can be observed more easily in video replays.
- If you score, your team-mates will jump on top of you. For this reason, it is advisable to remain standing or at least upright.
- That offside thing sort of makes sense now!
- ‘Rooney’ in the hands of a Japanese commentator sounds like ‘Looney’.
- ‘Penalty kick’ in Japanese is peekay.
- ‘Quarter-finals’ in Japanese is besuto eighto.
- Holding both hands up is universal language for ‘I didn’t do it, ref!’
- Once every four years, this planet splits into two universes – World Cup World and Non-World Cup World. In World Cup World, an octopus pronounces on the fate of nations and receives death threats when it has the temerity to be right. In Non-World Cup World, people do not threaten octopuses. They simply eat them.
- If I support a side, it will probably lose. I am as lucky an omen for a team as a dead albatross. Well, I knew this from previous World Cups but I thought that the jinx might have faded over time. It hasn’t. I backed a team in 11 of the 21 matches I watched this tournament. In one of those 11 instances, the, er, favoured side drew. In all the others, it lost.
So a few apologies are in order: Sorry, Spain. I really thought you’d be okay against Switzerland. Sorry, Brazil. I won’t do it again. Sorry, Argentina. If it makes you feel any better, I rooted for Germany in their next game. Sorry, Germany. I did try to make it up to you by not watching your match for third place. Even though I really wanted to. (Before you ask, I’m not responsible for what happened to France and Italy.)
- The tournament makes you wish it were safe to support a team without fear of bringing it down. It makes you wish that because of another thing I’ve learned from the World Cup.
- Football is fun. Even for albatrosses.
...
Postscript
After this piece was run in The Straits Times, reader Colin Lim sent this in:
In line with FIFA’s aim of promoting football in the world, allow me to answer your questions:
1) Footballers used to hold the hands of their WAGs (that’s wives and girlfriends to the uninitiated) when entering the pitch, amongst other body parts. That proved to be too much of a distraction, especially for the England team, so this practice was abandoned in favor of this more family-oriented option.
2) No, arguing with the ref has never ever worked. But footballers still do it. That’s why they are footballers.
3) In women’s football, players do change jerseys after a match. But only in the filthy minds of the fans. And it’s often in slow-mo with multiple replays.
4) If both teams wore the same strip, footballers would not be able to recognize their teammates. Same if they wore sunglasses or changed their hairstyles.
5) Yes, we can have a game with everyone in the same strip. Or in any matching attire for that matter. But Nike and Adidas will cry foul over the loss of business opportunities.
28th July 2010
During the World Cup, I wanted to ask:
- Why do footballers spit? When you’re sweating, surely you’d want to keep water inside your body?
- Why are goalkeepers the only players with a water bottle within easy reach when they’re also the players who run around the least?
- Why do footballers hold hands with little children when entering the pitch? Should they be bringing minors to a battlefield?
- Has arguing with the referee ever worked?
- In women’s football, do players exchange their jerseys after a match?
- If both teams wore the same strip, would the players still be able to recognise their teammates? Or would they end up passing the ball to the other side?
- Could we organise a game with everyone in the same strip? In the spirit of scientific inquiry?
During the World Cup, I learned that:
- Footballers fall over a lot.
- Players from the other team help them fall.
- Footballers don’t actually need that much help to fall.
- One-touch play does not refer to a player keeling over from one tap by an opponent.
- A fallen footballer can recover surprisingly quickly if the referee’s call goes in his favour. Or if he doesn’t get any attention in the first place. This could have important implications for medical science.
- It’s hard being the goalie. If the ball spills out of your hands and into goal, you will be compared to the worst environmental disaster ever to befall the United States.
- Goalkeepers fall over a lot too.
- They have to fall over without any help.
- Footballers look very different from footballs. But not to members of the opposing team, who take every opportunity to kick both.
- Most handballs are armballs.
- A vuvuzela beside your ear is louder than thousands in the TV.
- Giving someone your sweat-soaked jersey after a match is a friendly gesture, not a request for laundry assistance. And you get a jersey soaked with someone else’s sweat in return. Everybody wins!
- Sometimes, a player wants a jersey so much he doesn’t wait for the match to end but starts pulling at it during play.
- Football enables a man to pat another man’s rear in public without anyone getting punched. Or arrested.
- There is more drama in a month-long tournament than there is in a year-long soap opera. Except that no one in the tournament seems to have shot J.R. Maybe next time.
- When the ball flies into goal, time slows down. This phenomenon can be observed more easily in video replays.
- If you score, your team-mates will jump on top of you. For this reason, it is advisable to remain standing or at least upright.
- That offside thing sort of makes sense now!
- ‘Rooney’ in the hands of a Japanese commentator sounds like ‘Looney’.
- ‘Penalty kick’ in Japanese is peekay.
- ‘Quarter-finals’ in Japanese is besuto eighto.
- Holding both hands up is universal language for ‘I didn’t do it, ref!’
- Once every four years, this planet splits into two universes – World Cup World and Non-World Cup World. In World Cup World, an octopus pronounces on the fate of nations and receives death threats when it has the temerity to be right. In Non-World Cup World, people do not threaten octopuses. They simply eat them.
- If I support a side, it will probably lose. I am as lucky an omen for a team as a dead albatross. Well, I knew this from previous World Cups but I thought that the jinx might have faded over time. It hasn’t. I backed a team in 11 of the 21 matches I watched this tournament. In one of those 11 instances, the, er, favoured side drew. In all the others, it lost.
So a few apologies are in order: Sorry, Spain. I really thought you’d be okay against Switzerland. Sorry, Brazil. I won’t do it again. Sorry, Argentina. If it makes you feel any better, I rooted for Germany in their next game. Sorry, Germany. I did try to make it up to you by not watching your match for third place. Even though I really wanted to. (Before you ask, I’m not responsible for what happened to France and Italy.)
- The tournament makes you wish it were safe to support a team without fear of bringing it down. It makes you wish that because of another thing I’ve learned from the World Cup.
- Football is fun. Even for albatrosses.
...
Postscript
After this piece was run in The Straits Times, reader Colin Lim sent this in:
In line with FIFA’s aim of promoting football in the world, allow me to answer your questions:
1) Footballers used to hold the hands of their WAGs (that’s wives and girlfriends to the uninitiated) when entering the pitch, amongst other body parts. That proved to be too much of a distraction, especially for the England team, so this practice was abandoned in favor of this more family-oriented option.
2) No, arguing with the ref has never ever worked. But footballers still do it. That’s why they are footballers.
3) In women’s football, players do change jerseys after a match. But only in the filthy minds of the fans. And it’s often in slow-mo with multiple replays.
4) If both teams wore the same strip, footballers would not be able to recognize their teammates. Same if they wore sunglasses or changed their hairstyles.
5) Yes, we can have a game with everyone in the same strip. Or in any matching attire for that matter. But Nike and Adidas will cry foul over the loss of business opportunities.
Monday, July 05, 2010
So long, and arigatou for all the kicks
5th July 2010
We know now how the story ended.
But we didn’t know it on Tuesday, just as Yuichi Komano didn’t know he would enter Japanese football lore as The Man Who Missed.
It’s still Tuesday, Tuesday evening and a river of supporters in Japan’s blue uniform flows through central Kyoto.
I follow a few of them to a sports bar in Sanjo-Kiyamachi, a warren of narrow streets, neon signs, drinking places and other adult establishments. Over a hundred years ago, samurai plotted revolution here. But tonight, it is the Blue Samurai who will fight: They go to war on a battlefield with goalposts at both ends.
They face Paraguay; both sides are vying for their first-ever place in the World Cup quarter-finals.
Outside the bar, a long line of Japan supporters is already celebrating. Their national team has, against all expectations, fought its way out of the group stage, the first time it has done so overseas.
The fans wave flags, blow whistles, wear electric earrings that flash blue. And sing opera. The chorus of choice is from Verdi’s Aida – the bit where the Egyptian army returns in triumph after thrashing the Ethiopians 7-0.
I don’t know the words but that’s okay because no one seems to. ‘Oh, ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, oh, ohhh, oh, ohhh, oh, o-o-oh, ohhh,’ they bellow.
A few drops fall from the sky – we’re in the middle of Japan’s rainy season – but no one leaves the queue. For the chance to watch history made, what’s a little rain?
A lot of rain. It slashes down, silencing the singing. We are saved by a staff member who dashes out with umbrellas. He is dressed as Japan’s goalkeeper Eiji Kawashima, complete with the big gloves.
‘Kawashima, let me in!’ calls a girl.
I’m one of the last customers allowed inside. The bar’s sardine-full – blue uniforms, flags, flashing earrings and people screaming ‘Nippon!’
This is not a good place to be Paraguayan.
It’s 9.30pm – one and a half hours to go before the match starts. Time for more Verdi! ‘Oh, ohhh, oh, oh…’
The crowd works its way through the line-up, chanting the players’ names in turn. After a couple of false starts, I get the hang of it: Yell player’s name, clap three times, stretch arms out to TV.
‘Nakazawa!’ Clap, clap, clap, hands out, in supplication, in support.
Nakazawa, Nagatomo, Nakamura, Matsui, Kawashima, Honda –
The TV flashes a clip of coach Takeshi Okada crossing the pitch with a cup and his usual impassivity. He makes cliff faces look emotional.
‘Oka-chan!’ calls a fan, putting an affectionate spin on the name. The crowd picks it up. ‘Oka-chan!’ Clap, clap, clap, stick hands out. ‘Oka-chan!’
Derided for a string of losses in the build-up to the tournament, Okada has seen a whiplash reversal in his popularity. Fans once bayed for his blood or, at the very least, his resignation. But now, in Japan’s ancient capital, they chant his name like a god’s.
On hindsight, we should have called on other gods as well.
The two sides spend the entire 90 minutes locked in inconclusive struggle. The closest Japan gets to scoring is a shot in the 22nd minute that ricochets off the crossbar.
About 10 minutes later, another drive towards goal fizzles out. ‘No need to hold back!’ yells the man next to me.
The match will later be described as dull. But in that dark bar, with every near-miss greeted with groans, screams and stepped-up chanting, those 90 minutes are full of cardiac arrest potential.
The tension eases at one point, when the camera cuts to a shot of Okada’s stone-set face. The crowd has a suggestion for the coach: ‘Egao!’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Egao!’
Smile, they roar.
There isn’t much to smile about. The game goes into extra time but the only thing it settles is that the match will have to be settled by penalty shootout.
Everyone in the team – players, substitutes, coaches – huddles, holding one another in a tight circle.
In the bar, there is no room to form a circle but strangers’ arms are draped over my shoulders and mine, over theirs.
Yasuhito Endo scores first for Japan, followed by captain Makoto Hasebe. Yuichi Komano leaves his team-mates, waiting in a line with their arms around one another.
He stands in front of the Paraguayan goalkeeper: just one man facing another with a ball and the hopes of two nations between them.
He moves, the ball flies – and hits the crossbar. Is that the sound a heart makes when it breaks? Whatever it is, he will hear it for the rest of his life.
Keisuke Honda scores but so do the Paraguayans and they finish it 5-3.
Yuichi Komano, The Man Who Missed, is in tears. There are other ways to blight a man’s life. But this – this has to be the cruellest.
The others are crying too. Okada, in the way of someone not used to offering comfort, gives Komano a quick hug.
Marcus Tulio Tanaka, stalwart in defence and one of the team giants at 1.85m, sits slumped in the dugout. His Japanese-Brazilian father is seriously ill; after the game, he will fly to Brazil to see him. But for now, he can only stare into space, a man with nothing more to pull out of himself.
Okada accepts full responsibility for the loss, indicating that this will be his last World Cup.
But when he and his men fly back to Japan, they do not return to reproach. About 4,200 supporters gather at Kansai International Airport on Thursday to welcome them home.
The players, led by their coach, appear. A forest of hands holding phones and cameras flies up; women scream. Which is probably as good a measure of sporting success as any.
Okada cracks at last – he smiles.
It was raining when we filed out of the bar after the match into the dark of Wednesday morning. But before we left, we did one last chant.
‘Arigatou.’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Arigatou.’
5th July 2010
We know now how the story ended.
But we didn’t know it on Tuesday, just as Yuichi Komano didn’t know he would enter Japanese football lore as The Man Who Missed.
It’s still Tuesday, Tuesday evening and a river of supporters in Japan’s blue uniform flows through central Kyoto.
I follow a few of them to a sports bar in Sanjo-Kiyamachi, a warren of narrow streets, neon signs, drinking places and other adult establishments. Over a hundred years ago, samurai plotted revolution here. But tonight, it is the Blue Samurai who will fight: They go to war on a battlefield with goalposts at both ends.
They face Paraguay; both sides are vying for their first-ever place in the World Cup quarter-finals.
Outside the bar, a long line of Japan supporters is already celebrating. Their national team has, against all expectations, fought its way out of the group stage, the first time it has done so overseas.
The fans wave flags, blow whistles, wear electric earrings that flash blue. And sing opera. The chorus of choice is from Verdi’s Aida – the bit where the Egyptian army returns in triumph after thrashing the Ethiopians 7-0.
I don’t know the words but that’s okay because no one seems to. ‘Oh, ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, oh, ohhh, oh, ohhh, oh, o-o-oh, ohhh,’ they bellow.
A few drops fall from the sky – we’re in the middle of Japan’s rainy season – but no one leaves the queue. For the chance to watch history made, what’s a little rain?
A lot of rain. It slashes down, silencing the singing. We are saved by a staff member who dashes out with umbrellas. He is dressed as Japan’s goalkeeper Eiji Kawashima, complete with the big gloves.
‘Kawashima, let me in!’ calls a girl.
I’m one of the last customers allowed inside. The bar’s sardine-full – blue uniforms, flags, flashing earrings and people screaming ‘Nippon!’
This is not a good place to be Paraguayan.
It’s 9.30pm – one and a half hours to go before the match starts. Time for more Verdi! ‘Oh, ohhh, oh, oh…’
The crowd works its way through the line-up, chanting the players’ names in turn. After a couple of false starts, I get the hang of it: Yell player’s name, clap three times, stretch arms out to TV.
‘Nakazawa!’ Clap, clap, clap, hands out, in supplication, in support.
Nakazawa, Nagatomo, Nakamura, Matsui, Kawashima, Honda –
The TV flashes a clip of coach Takeshi Okada crossing the pitch with a cup and his usual impassivity. He makes cliff faces look emotional.
‘Oka-chan!’ calls a fan, putting an affectionate spin on the name. The crowd picks it up. ‘Oka-chan!’ Clap, clap, clap, stick hands out. ‘Oka-chan!’
Derided for a string of losses in the build-up to the tournament, Okada has seen a whiplash reversal in his popularity. Fans once bayed for his blood or, at the very least, his resignation. But now, in Japan’s ancient capital, they chant his name like a god’s.
On hindsight, we should have called on other gods as well.
The two sides spend the entire 90 minutes locked in inconclusive struggle. The closest Japan gets to scoring is a shot in the 22nd minute that ricochets off the crossbar.
About 10 minutes later, another drive towards goal fizzles out. ‘No need to hold back!’ yells the man next to me.
The match will later be described as dull. But in that dark bar, with every near-miss greeted with groans, screams and stepped-up chanting, those 90 minutes are full of cardiac arrest potential.
The tension eases at one point, when the camera cuts to a shot of Okada’s stone-set face. The crowd has a suggestion for the coach: ‘Egao!’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Egao!’
Smile, they roar.
There isn’t much to smile about. The game goes into extra time but the only thing it settles is that the match will have to be settled by penalty shootout.
Everyone in the team – players, substitutes, coaches – huddles, holding one another in a tight circle.
In the bar, there is no room to form a circle but strangers’ arms are draped over my shoulders and mine, over theirs.
Yasuhito Endo scores first for Japan, followed by captain Makoto Hasebe. Yuichi Komano leaves his team-mates, waiting in a line with their arms around one another.
He stands in front of the Paraguayan goalkeeper: just one man facing another with a ball and the hopes of two nations between them.
He moves, the ball flies – and hits the crossbar. Is that the sound a heart makes when it breaks? Whatever it is, he will hear it for the rest of his life.
Keisuke Honda scores but so do the Paraguayans and they finish it 5-3.
Yuichi Komano, The Man Who Missed, is in tears. There are other ways to blight a man’s life. But this – this has to be the cruellest.
The others are crying too. Okada, in the way of someone not used to offering comfort, gives Komano a quick hug.
Marcus Tulio Tanaka, stalwart in defence and one of the team giants at 1.85m, sits slumped in the dugout. His Japanese-Brazilian father is seriously ill; after the game, he will fly to Brazil to see him. But for now, he can only stare into space, a man with nothing more to pull out of himself.
Okada accepts full responsibility for the loss, indicating that this will be his last World Cup.
But when he and his men fly back to Japan, they do not return to reproach. About 4,200 supporters gather at Kansai International Airport on Thursday to welcome them home.
The players, led by their coach, appear. A forest of hands holding phones and cameras flies up; women scream. Which is probably as good a measure of sporting success as any.
Okada cracks at last – he smiles.
It was raining when we filed out of the bar after the match into the dark of Wednesday morning. But before we left, we did one last chant.
‘Arigatou.’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Arigatou.’
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The last of the irises
24th June 2010
There wasn't time to go see this year's irises and the season is pretty much over.
But I caught a few stragglers. And at Heian Jingu, there's always something to enjoy no matter what time of the year.
But on to the irises.
And a confused orchid:
Branch tunnel.
Wild tissue paper.
Pond does Monet impression.
A bridge where you can...
...sit and feed the ducks. And koi longer than my arm.
Light bouncing off the water onto the roof of the bridge.
The other side of the bridge.
For those of you who like gilt with your stairs.
A basin in bloom.
24th June 2010
There wasn't time to go see this year's irises and the season is pretty much over.
But I caught a few stragglers. And at Heian Jingu, there's always something to enjoy no matter what time of the year.
But on to the irises.
And a confused orchid:
Branch tunnel.
Wild tissue paper.
Pond does Monet impression.
A bridge where you can...
...sit and feed the ducks. And koi longer than my arm.
Light bouncing off the water onto the roof of the bridge.
The other side of the bridge.
For those of you who like gilt with your stairs.
A basin in bloom.
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