Phantom Tokyo- The Other Side |
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My old friend and leaves me a souvenir:
entitled Saiyuuki goes to Disneyland. Thank you, sweetie. Hakkai in the outsize mouse ears bought for him by Gojou, quietly losing his limiters through stress and teeth-gritting irritation, *speaks* to me, as I'm sure it does to you. Drive carefully. Guests here all week. Introverts are like chameleons- we take on colouring from the people we're with. (That's what makes us introverts, of course. If your personality altered arbitrarily because someone was sitting across the table from you, you might not want someone sitting across the table from you very often; or at least, only someone who turned you into a nice person.) But it follows as well that being with other people is like being on vacation. It's a break from being oneself, a little trip to Someone I Might Have Been But Wasn't, and very pleasant just for that reason. Even work looks quite bearable when one returns from that expanded consciousness. Though it helps that our perennial wailer has been replaced by a smiley four month old babbler who lies on his back and coos at the ceiling, that we had all the Happy Babies today- Amani, Asha and Michael- and that the mug and rain and occasional storms that have been blowing through all day gave way at last to dry blue skies and gold sun and breezes. Sudden discovery last night, in the That's Not Him seiyuu dep't. Every VA has one role where he drops his tics and chronic mannerisms and simply *doesn't sound like himself*- Wolfwood for Hayami Sho, Mikage for Midorikawa. I've discovered Ishida Akira's. Not that anyone except an old Papuwa fan would know the series. He was the hero Baku in Jibaku-kun, where he sounds like Midorikawa. That he should have been the older bishie En, or even the chronically sunao Kai, makes no difference. He's genki, otoko-rashii and chronically irascible Baku, who when asked to write a composition on his future aspirations, stands up and says 'My dream is to run the world.' Scratch that itch. Have been told why both KojiR's tape of the elusive ep 39 and my totally brand new and legitimately purchased if-not-by-me copy of EC played in distressing day-glo orange when I put them in the new VCR. It's because the new VCR is sequenced to the old VCR, which means the tapes register that I'm trying to copy them, which invokes the copyguard that exists *even in a copy of a copy-guarded tape.* Always nice when you know. Houseguests have their uses. Such as making me watch Buffy. OK, I apologize. The show is worth the fuss people make about it. If only because it's such a shoujo manga done western- a good shoujo manga done intelligently western. "If not for yooouuu, I couldn't even find the floor..." Dedicated to my more or less once a year house guests, without whom I would never clean this place. Wish the house guest currently presumed to be in transit would at least call to tell me if she is, and when she expects to get in. For all I know to the contrary, she's still in Japan. MediaWest is *that* engrossing? (It's only my personal history that makes western media fans feel quaint to me now, with all this fuss about Buffy and George Lucas' latest self-indulgence and, you know, *live action* stuff. Real people. (shakes head) Haven't been gone on a real person in over ten years, and I'm damned if I'll tell anyone who it was. Largely because I've forgotten his name, though I can tell you who he played.) Part of going through the VHS boxes was the 'oh I never did finish watching this one' rediscovery of Tenshi ni Narumon. Don't know where my head was when I first looked at it (elsewhere, probably Saiyuuki-besotted) because this time my god the weirdness is in my face and between the eyes. And I can sort of half-see that it must have started as one of those gag shounen manga that are like a drug-dream anyway if you think about them for two seconds, only you don't because (shrug) it's a gag manga they're weird like that (dismiss). But just dropping into the anime version- yeah. The subtext. The archetypes. The is-that-there-or-did-I-just-see-it quality, like Utena, but this time totally random, served straight from someone's unconscious. I really really like it, that absence of thought. The right-brainedness. Makes everything else look so left-brain and controlled, even things I like like Trigun and Esca. You know where they're going, or at least know they're going somewhere. This is like boarding a train at night in an unlighted station. You could wind up anywhere. The only trouble being that when I meet one of those, I want more of the same. And can't have it, because this kind of series comes along when it comes along. You can't *ask* for 'a series that sneaks up behind you and knocks you on the head, to go, please.' And there are so many anime that do ditzy and silly and *don't* have any subtext to them, or subtext I'd look at for a second. (sighs) It's a problem. Mimi said something in passing about having an Aesthe blog. On second thought, I'm all for it, because it's easier to write fannnish notes and reviews in a blog than for a webpage article. Takes the pressure off. Anyway- the Korean PM's son is Not Speaking to the Korean emissary-cum-assassin whom he so resembles, and the son of the Sogas is being too well-bred to ask why. Why I love and hate shounen ai- it doesn't tell you Everything, up front and right away. It makes you sweat a little, even in tankoubon. But this leads me into the little meditation I had on people who say they can't write a series unless it's finished. Must be that I learned my fandom in Japan with an unfinished series, because by me at least half the role of fanfic/ djs is to provide possible answers to outstanding questions, which may or may not be answered by series' end. Who killed Jan? What was Magic's father like? And why is the Korean PM's son in Japan serving the heir to the Sogos, preferring horses to people, and not speaking to the man I'll bet is his uncle? Speculating in fictive mode rather than discussion. But the answer to that last question exists somewhere in the rest of Hi Izuru... and I may read it eventually, so for me there's no longer a reason to speculate. The answer is known. Thus I cannot speculate on the answer, as I could if the answer was still unknown to the rest of the world. In a finished series the questions have answers, so all you can do is rework the existing parts. The More function of fanfic- I want to see these guys doing More of the same- which is fine. But it's not nearly as satisfying as doing the ongoing What or Why? because that kind of speculation seems a much more interactive way of relating to the series. To take Veruska's metaphor of building new rooms in other people's houses- a finished series is like papering the walls or adding curtains. An unfinished series really is like building a new room- which may suddenly disappear on you next month, but that's the fun of it. Mondegreens My aniki didn't know what a mondegreen is. Amazing. My aniki knows everything, and always has.
So in the interests of public ed:
Ye highlands and ye lowlands instead of 'laid him on the green.' (Ballads are good for this one. I always heard that the Cruel Mother took out her weepin' knife, all the lee and lodie, rather than her 'wee pen knife.') They've been mondegreens ever since. Collected on a couple of webpages, one named for perhaps the most famous of the lot, Jimi Hendrix' Scuse me while I kiss this guy. Kissthisguy.com has a nice bunch, as does amiright.com if you can get it to load. (Sundays, she grumbles. People on all the highways, concrete and info. But I'm reminded that it also has CreedenceCW's 'There's a bathroom on the right.') Amiright has a contrib from my younger bro which he says was mine, the anti-semitic violence advocated in Mrs. Robinson. I can only say I don't remember it. And to you guys out there: i wub j00 all, especially when you update your blogs, reading which is how *I* waste time in the mornings. Papuwa redivivus- Shibata is now drawing again the series she ended seven years ago, and my copy of ep 3 arrived yesterday. Different in feel, of course, but still- the same faces as before, and the possibilities reopening. But strange to see the pages of Gangan *here*, in Toronto. Papuwa *here*, in Toronto, for me is Channel 5, because that's where I was when Shibata suddenly brought Takamatsu and Jan and Servis into that series back in '96. And gave us hideous hints and had these puzzling nightmarish moments and then suddenly dropped the whole thing a year later. So- you know- I have this 'tragedy coming' feel, and all the sunny island stuff feels... so long ago. But it made me go and look at Percy again. That was my own version of post-Papuwa, begun a few months before Channel 5 took its particular swing, and had its settei well-established by the time the fateful copy of Animage arrived (on the same day as a genuine typhoon, speaking of nostalgia.) And that too reads sunny and long ago, at least in its opening sections. Jan and Servis, my first lovers. Part of my fannish youth... I'd almost be tempted to finish it, except that the last 40 pages stink so strongly of writer's block (wrung out of my heart's blood from March of 97 to July of '98) that it kills both inspiration and inclination. A pity. Meanwhile I find me being rather taken with Choushimaro in Hi Izuru... Son of the Korean king's chief minister, now a close-mouthed servant to the son of the Sogas. May have to get more copies of that one somehow just to see how it happened and what happens after. *How*, being the question. No way I'm reading it in bunkou, sorry. 'My eyes, my poor poor eyes, that I've had ever since I was a little girl' to paraphrase Dorothy Parker. (Note to me- ask Suze-my-sister who got the Dorothy Parker omnibus when we divvied the library. I didn't, which surprises me. All those half-remembered quotes: 'Oh of course it was an accident. Accident, my foot. Freud says there are no accidents.' 'The love affair between Elinor Glyn and Elinor Glyn will live forever in the annals of history.' 'She can cry at the drop of a hat. Can, hell-- does.' I'd like to track them down again.) This is one of Li Bo's that translates rather well:
My old friend The distant image Or maybe that should be 'translates *into* something rather good', because I've no idea how it matches the Chinese at all. And here's one of Du Fu's that doesn't translate as badly as the others:
The good rain On the wind Paths in the fields- In the morning with the same caveats applying. Obviously I'm an imagist. Times I can't remember what else poetry is for, if not to show you pictures. And then I remind myself of things like No longer mourn for me when I am dead which are as much sound as sense. So maybe, poetry in translation for me is imagist... only that still doesn't explain Rilke.
With no care for duty or people
Driven by the need of love
One day the wind of autumn shall come That's supposed to be a translation from the Japanese, a geisha song (it's at the back of the Tuttle edition of Comrade Loves of the Samurai)- or rather a translation from the French translation of the Japanese lyrics. It doesn't sound even remotely Japanese to my ears (we know how the French like to embroider ^_^) but it's still a really neat poem.
Two in their little room And this really is Japanese, one of Shiki's:
Imperceptibly National Shame Apropos of fandom unzari down there- transpires that the two biggest ditzes on a certain ML are from Canada. Time to emigrate elsewhere. (Why yes, I *am* procrastinating again. How did you know?) Stories that fight you will either turn out very well, like the first Sergei/ Dorian, or very badly, like the last Sergei/ Dorian. It's that pesky thing called inspiration. You can write without it, and write well without it, and I've done it. But when it's not there you need some other incentive to write- the hope of reaching other fans, maybe, or as a haven from RL horribilities, or just rock-bottom Nothing I do matters so I might as well be doing this. I don't want to reach the fans, whom in my current misery I heartily despise; and writing as a haven only works if you're channelling, because otherwise it's just as horrible as RL. So if the current Saiyuki gets finished somehow it will simply be because there's no reason not to do it. "But I wish to go on record as saying I have no confidence in this story. Thank you." And I could natter at length as to what the story's about, but that's as prattish as having a ML to tell your horde of eager fans when you've finished a story. More to the point, it's a substitute for writing the story, and a bad one. So I won't. There's room for an article on fannish burnout. Not tiring of the series, but tiring of the fandom, or just fans in general, and retiring like a 6th century anchorite to the desert or a T'ang dynasty poet to the country, with only one's manga and Wordtank for company, to devote oneself to pure contemplation of the work far away from the bustle of the corrupt city and the ignorant court. Had a dream last night that won't leave me alone. A tryst arranged with a certain woman, someone I know but can't name, at a resort in the country- tryst being with sequentially with two guys and then with me. First guy is a nice wombattish type, also someone I know and can't name; second guy is a snotty superior dweeb, of the kind we all know and won't name. But when it gets to be my turn she and the dweeb give me a superior smile and walk away, because she's chosen to be with him. Analyzing this when I wake up, I figure that the woman is a compound of Grace and Amy, and I leave it to you to figure out the significance of those two names. (OK, look- if you don't want to translate the bit about the miserable condition of the slaves in Ecbatana, just skip it for now and go on to the fun one, with Darun and Narsus at the book-burning. Nothing says the thing has to be done in sequence, for god's sake. But (sadly) it's all a great comedown after the bit about the mad necromancer and his demons raising the Serpent-King who oppressed all of Pars for a thousand years. (So called because he had two snakes growing out of his shoulders who fed on human brains.) If only because it's all so reminiscent of Flowering, speaking of mindless fun series I wouldn't mind seeing more of...^_^) Horticultural update. The lilacs are finally out, with their slightly ayashii too-sweet and ever so nostalgic perfume. Warm May days at the convent school, singing awful hymns in the lilac-bedecked chapel- 'Tis the month of our Mo-o-other, the blessed and beautiful daaaays...' The double cherry down the street, overdone hot pink, begins to fall and overflow the gutters. And the neighbour's white cherry blossoms scattered in the cool breeze yesterday as I was sitting in the backyard reading Arslan. A good run for their money, this year. I'm not an outdoor person at all, but the garage guys had both my garage and my brother's open to the alleyway- mine to replace the door, my brother's to get a source of electricity to do it- and there's a lot of stealable stuff in my brother's garage, and even in this neighbourhood there are kids. So I set up a lawn chair with cushion in the shade (the picnic table was in full sun) and sat there with my book and word tank in the blue and white afternoon. Molly the cat came by to complain that I was sitting down and she wasn't. Snowball from down the street came by to sulk that Molly had a lap to sit in and Snowball didn't. I got up to talk to the guys about something or other, and Molly at once settled happily into my chair and went to sleep. Cow. A peaceful afternoon on Clinton St. Part of the weirdness no doubt is that I don't go into the daycare every day like I used to. Can't stand to, basically; and of course there isn't room for a fifth body. In a way it's a relief, because hanging out there was just too easy and pleasant, and I could waste whole afternoons doing it while the people I was translating for just had to wait. Now that I don't have that constant seductive 'why don't I just drop in' voice murmuring in my ear, I have more time than I know what to do with. And no inclination to do anything, but that's because I'm having psychosomatic muscle knots and all-day headaches. Kills inspiration. So I tidy- absently, falling into it by accident. I know I was doing the tidy-and-toss routine earlier this year, but it wasn't anything like this. This is the version I did when I came back from Japan, and after my mother died. Grief tidying and throwing-out. It's therapeutic. This afternoon I went through the mudroom glory-hole where I toss everything I don't want to deal with (boxes, baskets, empty jars, paintbrushes) or can't bring myself to throw out (old boots, old coats, you-never-know-when-you-might-need-it), and now I can reach the bookshelf again. (Parenthetical note on the psychology of spaces.) The mudroom is a bad thing for procrastinative me. Shove it in there and forget, except for the nagging sense of that area of chaos on the other side of the wall from my civilized kitchen. Taking things down to the basement- which is the function of basements- doesn't work for me. It's like burying them and knowing they're down there below me, rotting. I was traumatized forever by a manga called Hanging Garden, where someone had a bunch of bodies in their cellar, wrapped securely in linen bandages or something and tidily arranged, but *there*. The garage is even worse. In the garage they *are* rotting, and probably being gnawed by fieldmice as well. But the mudroom is fine-it's above ground, it's sunny, it gives the illusion of having reached a decision about this stuff- and all the rejected mono pile up inside it in low-level anxiety-making chaos until I tidy it again. Tonight somehow I wound up going through all the boxes of Japanese tapes that live in a corner of the front room, which then involved rearranging all the tapes on the shelves, which then resulted in getting all the Animedias into a box and out of the way, which then meant rounding up the ones that had strayed into the front room and separating them from the Puffs there as well, which resulted in me finding an interview with Motoni Modoru that I'd never noticed. And getting my sister's tapes out of their tiny box and into one of my big ones resulted in finding the Stigma card I bought in Tokyo that I'd forgotten about. So virtue *is* its own reward after all. The drawback to all this is the time-travel feel it elicits, unearthing the buried past. Sometimes, as when reading old emails, I like the feeling; but going through *things* always makes me feel undefinably kimochi warui. Always has, as though the past, whatever it was like at the time, is toxic now simply by virtue of being past, and breathing its air again may infect you with dormant bacteria.
Thought this would be a wasted day- started at 5:40 am with a muscle knot that I muscle relaxed back into sleep at 8, which process seems to have wiped my brain totally because today now registers as a blank. These little attacks of amnesia are worrisome: *all* of Monday vanished like that, and my recollection of yesterday is pretty fuzzy too. But somehow in the float I called the garage guy and they're coming tomorrow and I went and, it seems, just cleaned up the garage. Or tidied it, at least, so now both they and a car can get into the place (and where did all those bricks come from? and the hardwoood doors? and the great coil of wire eight feet long? My garage scares me.) I still haven't a clue what to write for the front page though. Frustration. The EC OVA gives me a first name for Matsumoto, which I don't remember the manga doing, but the possible readings are endless- Takahiko? Nagatsune? Shigenaga? Morinaga? (could be Naganaga, if you liked...^_^) Something-hisa is what you'd expect... Wanted to make it a plot point and then decided not, but it would help to *know*. Tachibana's first name looks to be Haruka, which pleases me. But Japanese *names*-- the guy who does Fujiwara is I + market + pure, read Kisaichi Atsushi. I is Kisa when it's a name and that's just something you have to know. Oh by the way- Harpy is *cool*. Totally. Utterly. Flits from Margery Kempe to punting a boat to bitching about html to bitching about Bunyan's religion and en passant dissing St. Paul. What's that woman doing in your generation? She belongs in mine. And she cheers me immensely. The things I grew up with yet survive somehow, as long as the British young still learn Latin and Greek and think that what happened in the 17th century matters. (Though MK being in cherch among the monkys had me thinking Gokuu first thing and Luffy second. Possibly *I* don't belong in my generation, now I think about it. My best friend from high school won't talk to me about my stories because the concept of writing other people's characters weirds her too much. Barb Chloe's-mom, loveliest woman in the world, saw my Saiyuuki shitajiki and had a gut-reaction of complete revulsion to Sanzou, once she found that he was indeed a he. One forgets how much the eye and the brain have become habituated to Japan until reminded.) And a good night to you *too*, Fido Mondegreen, Mondegreen! No, never mind why I was looking for the lyrics to Louis' Armstrong's Wonderful World. (For one thing, I thought it was Nat King Cole's.) I found 'em, first item on the Google search.
I see trees are green
I see skies are blue And I think to myself, you better. (OK, for those superior souls who wouldn't touch Wonderful World with a bargepole, I'll explain that the line is 'the dark sacred night,' which is indeed a good reason not to touch it with a bargepole. But that one's up there with 'A girl with colitis goes by' by the Beatles, and the line from The Sounds of Silence 'Neath the halo of a street lamp/ I turned my collar to the cold and damned' and my own 12-year-old's hearing of a title later and more famously covered by The Mamas and the Papas, 'This is dedicated to the one-eyed love.' Kinks start early in my family. The theory was that when I finished the Italian BL article a great weight would lift from my shoulders, the sky would clear, the sun would shine, and all would be well again. Why is this not happening?
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