My kind of guy

Ditto!

Disagreeable people looking for an argument.  Who needs it?

Strike a pose!

 

When I was an undergraduate, I posed as a figure model for art classes, so I can empathize with this comic strip.  Funny thing is, if a 16-year-old boy had gone into a strip club he would have been thrown out, and the owner might have risked being arrested.  But an art class?  No problem!

Most of the models made it clear as they posed that they were indifferent about or bored by what they were doing, and ignored the...um, I almost said "audience," lol, but "aspiring artists" is the better term.  But I didn't.  I looked them over, gave a few a faint smile (mustn't break the pose!) and otherwise engaged with them in subtle ways.  When the class was over, other models would dash off as if relieved to be done with the odious task, but I would linger a bit and look over the sketches and paintings, express interest and chat a bit.  It was fun.

I guess

Overheard:  "You win some, you lose some, and taxes take the rest."

My solace

When the world is too much, when nothing makes sense, my solace is music.  I lose myself in it, forgetting everything else. There is nothing else.  How could there be anything else?



Stephen Foster's lovely "Beautiful Dreamer," the last song he ever wrote, composed a few days before his death, arranged for solo piano.

Foreign ways

I don't know why Japanese do this, but it's almost a law that they jump up, kick their heels and flash double peace signs whenever they get their photos taken at some tourist spot, even if the "tourist spot" is a battlefield where hundreds of Japanese soldiers perished in a banzai charge or is the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor.  I've even seen them do it at the suicide cliffs memorial on Saipan, where you'd think they'd realize acting like a jackass is inappropriate.  But nope.
Oh, well.  Better them than us, right?

Future department head

A child's summer

Don't you remember how it was?

Hey

Hi, Wanda,
It was nice to see you again.  It's hard to believe we haven't seen each other since we were passing through MKAB.  That's a long time ago already.
I know I promised to keep in touch and let you know how things were going with me. I meant to, I really did.  But you know how it is.
I hate to think that we are moving on farther and farther into our own worlds and away from the friendship and shared experiences that we had and that we thought would always be important and tie us together.   But life moves on, doesn't it?  Your boat drifts on that current, mine on this one, and soon enough we can't hear each other, even if we shout, and then, finally, we can't even see each other any more.
But I will always remember you, wonder what you are doing at this moment that I think about you, and hope that you are happy and content.
Your friend,

Do I remember?  Do I?  Every day.  Every day I remember.

Pavane for a dead...civilization

Have we lost the battle?  Did we fight?

Once upon a time...

       

    Well, I think...

War

“We have merely nodded to fear. Now we must shake its filthy hand.”
    ~ Ernest K. Gann, Fate is the Hunter

I've been thinking of something Dickey Chapelle wrote in her autobiography. She was a war correspondent on Iwo Jima in 1945 and had just photographed a wounded marine:

The photograph she took.

“After I took his picture, while the chaplain administered the last rites as the corpsman began transfusing him, he came back to consciousness for a moment. His eyes rested on me. He said, “Hey, who you spyin’ for?”
“The folks back home, Marine.”
“The folks back home, huh? Well, fuck the folks back home!” he rasped. Then he closed his eyes. I didn’t see where his stretcher was carried.
After we had ceased loading for the day, his voice haunted me. What lay behind that raw reflex answer? What dear-John-I-know-you-understand letter? What other betrayal?
I remembered his wound. A piece of a giant mortar shell had sliced across his stomach. So I went down into the abdominal ward with my notebook in my hand. There were no names in it yet because I wasn’t willing to hold up moving stretchers while I spelled out names. But I had copied the dogtag numbers of each man as I made his picture. The nurses’ clipboard listed the serial numbers of the men being treated. The number I wanted wasn’t there. I thought perhaps I had been mistaken about the kind of wound he had, so I tried to find him in the other wards, the other decks, even those of the officers. I couldn’t find his number.
There was only one more set of papers aboard. This showed the dogtag numbers of the men who had died on deck. The number for which I was looking was near the top of the list.
So I think I was the last person to whom he was able to talk. And I had heard him die cursing what I thought he had died to defend.
It was my first and most terrible encounter with the barrier between men who fight, and those for whom the poets and the powers say they fight.”

Dickey Chapelle

Chapelle herself was killed in Viet Nam in 1965 while on patrol with marines during Operation Black Ferret.

A life

Happy days in Mukden.

One of the most remarkable people I've ever met taught me Japanese flower arranging and Japanese culture in general when I was a child, a Navy brat, living in Japan with my parents.
She had had a very up-and-down life, some of it quite tragic and horrific, but when I knew her as an old lady she was serene and optimistic about life.
Her parents were from Yamaguchi Prefecture in western Japan, apparently originally from Miyajima, where some of her ancestors had been priests at the well-known Shinto shrine there.  When Japan took over Manchuria in 1931, her father, a mining engineer, emigrated with his family to Mukden (奉天), now Shenyang (沈阳).  She was born there in 1935.

Typical Mukden Street scene in the 1930s. .

She recalls a happy childhood in a prosperous household, with frequent trips to the countryside for picnics and exploring.  Her mother played both the piano and violin and her father was a connoisseur of all  things French.  She had private tutors for music, French and English lessons, as well as for Japanese etiquette, language and history.  Her favorite novel was Natsume Soseki's Wagahai wa Neko de Aru. (吾輩は猫である). The winters were bitterly cold, but the streets and sidewalks were steam heated and people walked along them in summer yukatas quite comfortably.
This began to change when the war, which she was not aware was happening, began to go ill for Japan.  Her parents warned her to avoid Chinese, whom they told her were jealous of the superior Japanese and would steal their children to raise as their own.  One day, the Chinese household servants disappeared and she found her pet dog dead with a knitting needle jammed through its ear into its brain.
Food became scarce,  their once toasty-warm house, the floors of which were steam-heated like the sidewalks and streets, grew cold and she slept under thick futons in her parents' bedroom.  Her father never went anywhere unarmed, and Japanese soldiers with large rifles mounting fixed bayonets patrolled the streets and were stationed in front of her house.

Japanese soldiers outside a Mukden office.

One day she looked up in the sky at a strange droning sound and saw a bright silver plane circling the city.  The next day dozens of B-29s filled the sky and bombs fell like rain, leaving the city in flames.  That was the beginning of a nightmare.
Soon word came that the Chinese Communist 8th Route Army had infiltrated the city and every Japanese was at risk.  Her father decided to evacuate his family to Korea, but it was impossible to obtain transportation, and the family was still in Mukden when the war ended and Soviet troops marched into the city.  Her father was warned that his name was on a list of technical experts whom the Russians intended to arrest and use for their own ends.  His family would simply be left to fend for themselves, probably to be killed by the Chinese.

A Japanese machinegun squad defending Mukden.

Somehow, he got the family onto a freight train destined to go all the way to the port of Pusan in what is now South Korea.  The train cars were filled with other Japanese fleeing Manchuria.  For everyone, the goal was to try to get back to Japan. 
The trip south was uneventful until they entered Korea.  There, mobs of Koreans pelted the train with bricks and stones and whenever the train slowed down tried to climb aboard and attack the Japanese refugees.  When the train stopped to water and re-coal the engine, Japanese soldiers fought off mobs, firing into crowds of angry Koreans and bayoneting those  who pushed forward anyway.  The angry yells of the crowd, the bellowing of the soldiers, the gunshots and screams of those bayoneted were defeaning.  During the entire journey south, there was no food or water or relief facilities for the Japanese on board.
At one point while the train was moving, it slowed suddenly for some reason and crowds surged against the train and began pulling Japanese off the cars and beating them with clubs, some Koreans even climbed aboard and began throwing children and old people off the train cars to the mob, which killed them.  

Ship repatriating Japanese from Korea.

Her parents pushed her to the center of the car they were on and told her no matter what happened to stay in the center of the car.  Her father then went toward the door of the car to help beat back the Koreans but he was overwhelmed and pulled out of the car.  Her mother involuntarily rose up and stepped toward where he had been and fell into the grip of Korean hands and disappeared into the mob.
Suddenly the train picked up speed, leaving the mob behind.  She never saw her parents again, or knew what happened to them. 
When the train reached Pusan, Korean militia soldiers chased the Japanese refugees out of the cars and drove them out of the train station.  She found herself alone wandering strange streets, not knowing where she was or what she should do.  She was terribly hungry.  Finally she simply sat down where she was and gave up.
After a while, she heard the engine of a car coming and looked up to see what she would later learn was a Jeep.  In it were some strange-looking soldiers.  They drove past her, stopped, backed up, and one soldier got out of the Jeep and spoke to her in English.  She knew English!  She said she was hungry and wanted to go home.  When the soldiers, who were American GIs, figured out she was a Japanese refugee, they drove her to an embarkation point where Japanese were being loaded on ships and repatriated to Japan.  All she remembers of that is seeing what she called a circus flag -- so pretty! -- (the Stars and Stripes), being fed until she couldn't eat any more, including things she had never had before, like chocolate bars and buttered bread, using a shower for the first time, being dusted all over with some white powder (deloused with DDT), being given clean clothes, and feeling safe for the first time in a long time, with all those friendly American soldiers treating her like a princess and even asking her help interpreting.  She felt important and knew the GIs would not let any Chinese or Koreans even get near her.

The circus flag -- 48 stars.

She doesn't remember the ocean voyage to Japan other than that the ship was so crowded there was hardly any room to lie down.  She spent the entire trip on deck.
When she got to Japan she was interrogated  by Japanese officials, who determined her honseki (officially registered place of birth for establishing nationality purposes) and who her nearest relatives were.  They gave her their address and put her on a train filled with other refugees and repatriated Japanese soldiers.  The train was slow and stopped at every station, but eventually she arrived in the town where her relatives lived and walked about half an hour, asking for directions of people she met, until she found their house.  
Instead of a welcome, the garden gate was slammed in her face and she was told to go away.  They had no spare food to feed a stranger.  After awhile she again simply sat down, not knowing what else to do, and waited.  She waited all night.  In the morning, the gate opened and a man stepped out.  She stood up to speak to him, hopeful, and he threw a bucket of slops on her and told her to go away before he beat her with a club.
So she left.  She didn't know where to go or what do do.  She grew very hungry.  When she approached people asking for food, they shunned her. Some threw things at her.

Repatriated Japanese troops.  No GI bill for them.

Finally as she trudged down a narrow lane, she saw in the distance a familiar sight -- the circus flag, colorful with is blue and red and white, its stars and stripes.  She broke into a run until she reached the guard gate of a small American garrison.  She tried to run past the guard and into  the safety of the base but was scooped up by the guard.  In a rush she said in her schoolbook English that she was hungry and wanted to be with the American GIs and would interpret for them and please don't turn her away because nobody in the world wanted her.
And so began a new life for her.  The GIs took her in, basically adopting her, feeding her, clothing her and putting her to work for them, cleaning their barracks, shining shoes, running errands, interpreting for them.  She had her own little room and was safe and comfortable.  She learned idiomatic American English and grew fond of chewing gum and hot dogs.
Only one bad thing ever happened to her during what turned out to be a years'-long stay:  when out playing among some ruins one day, a Japanese man grabbed and raped her.  When she came crying back to her GI friends they went after him and "did for him" as one told her, but she was pregnant and gave birth to a daughter, about whom I will write later.
She never married, but raised her daughter by herself, with the help of her GI friends, and later, the families of occupation troops, including some of my relatives.  At some point, she gave birth to a son, fully Japanese, but I don't know any details, other than that he grew up to be a "salaryman," the Japanese term for an office worker.

Sailor and Japanese children at Kamakura.

Through her interpreting and translation activities for US forces, she became associated with Armed Forces Radio personnel and began working for the Far East Network, eventually having her own 15-minute show, explaining Japanese customs to American servicemen. It was syndicated throughout Japan and was even picked up by NHK, the Japanese government radio network.
At some point she moved to the Tokyo area, working for both FEN and the Stars & Stripes newspaper.  She was friends with some GIs who pranked the country with a fake report about a sea monster attacking Tokyo.  This incident was later turned into the movie Godzilla.
One of my grandfathers was in the Air Force, and at one point was based in the Tokyo area, the family living in the Washington Heights housing area, which was where the 1964 Olympic stadium facilities are now.    She became friends with them, teaching Japanese in private lessons, as well as Japanese culture such as flower arranging.  In return they helped her teach her daughter English.
As luck would have it, my other grandfather was in the Navy and was stationed for years in Japan and his family also met her and began a long-term friendship.  Eventually, my mother sponsored her daughter to attend school in the States.
In any case, I came to know this woman's remarkable story in bits and piece over the years.  She is still alive, alert and active, ready to teach you about classic Japanese culture, language and arts.  She loves American GIs still and thinks America is the greatest country in the world.
She actually visited the country once, around 1970, seeing Honolulu, San Francisco and New York.  She especially wanted to ride on a New York City subway.  She recalled reading detective stories about a "Subway Sam" when she was a little girl, but no one knows  of such a gumshoe; maybe she is remembering  stories written by a Japanese author in a Japanese magazine.
Her image of the country pretty much ends with her visits.  Mostly, when she envisions the country, she seems to see it as it was reflected by the young Americans she was friends with circa 1950.
I would have fallen in love with that America, too.

Memorial Day

Wars don't end. Every bullet leaves an exit wound. 

Lives stop, dreams collapse, futures implode.

“What are the children of men, but as leaves that drop at the wind's breath?”
“But now, as it is, sorrows, unending sorrows, must surge within your heart — My spirit rebels — I’ve lost the will to live, to take my stand in the world of men.”
~ Homer, The Iliad 

 Something Grabbed Him
By Gregory Robert Samuels

And then something happened from within
Something grabbed him
Grabbed him by the throat
He began to choke
He fought in frenzy, fighting for his life
He thought it was over, he thought of his wife
He thought death was knocking on his door
Death was close, as it had been so many times before
It can’t be, he began to scream
‘Wake up’ said his wife, ‘it’s only a dream.’

Pop nihilism

Well, sure, in the long run we'll all be pushing up daisies so blah blah.  Old stuff.  Appealing to teen philosophers and assorted retards.
On the other hand, there's my outlook on life:  it's a lovely day, the birds are singing, I had a good breakfast, a homeless guy picking up soda cans said I had a great ass.  I'll enjoy my work day, having a nice lunch and conversation to break it up.
Later in the evening I'll dance to some tunes and otherwise have a pleasant evening, so what me worry?
I guess that's lame, too.  Eat, drink and be merry stuff.  So I'm just a different type of retard.
Whatever. 

Ugh!

When you've got a deadline 

but just can't get your thoughts organized and the words don't flow, 

this is how it feels.

Indians!

Cheyenne Army Scouts led by Lt. E.W. Casey, December, 1890, during the Ghost Dance troubles.

Cheyenne Scouts sketched by Frederick Remington.

Back among my ancestors is a northern Cheyenne Army Scout.  He served with the 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry, out of Fort Keogh, Montana.  I still have relatives living in Lame Deer and Ashland, Montana.  I like to visit the area when I can and see the herds of antelope, visit the buffalo preserves, take in the big sky and the endless horizon.  It's all peaceful now, but not all that long ago, as history is reckoned, it was  the scene of legendary battles.

2nd Lt. George Grummond and the Lakota Sioux American Horse.

The poet John Neihard wrote an epic five-volume narrative poem about the plains Indian wars called Cycle of the West.  At one time, it was called the American Iliad.  Now good luck even finding a copy.  The last two volumes were of especial interest to me, and, in particular, the final volume, The Song of the Messiah, which recounts the ending days of it all, with the desperate, pathetic Ghost Dance episode, culminating at Wounded Knee, where my ancestor fought, but with the US Army.  We have a letter of commendation from 22nd Infantry commander Col. Peter Swaine praising his conduct and remarking that he had never known of a Springfield carbine "put to such speedy and accurate use."  I don't know what to feel about that.
 I don't know anything about my ancestor's life other than what is reflected in his service records.  He was paid $25 a month, which doesn't seem like much, but apparently a regular cavalry trooper was paid just $13 a month, so he was making pretty good money, I guess.
Mostly, he would have been scouting against the Sioux, the northern Cheyenne's traditional enemy, although during the fiercest fighting of the plains wars, the Cheyenne and Sioux had been allied, most notably during Red Cloud's War in 1866, which they won, and during the summer campaign of 1876, which they also won.

But by the next year the Army had Cheyenne scouts leading them against the Sioux, which they defeated.  It's a strange story.  And like much of the Indian wars, confusing and, inevitably, sad.  You don't know who to root for.  At least I don't.  Though, of course, it was impossible for the plains Indians to win.  The wheels of history had turned and a new age had dawned, one in which the Indian had no place, except and unless he surrendered his old life, his old ways, his old culture, and adopted the new.  How hard that must have been, and no wonder so many Indians resisted to the bitter end.
But my ancestor bowed to the inevitable and followed the old advice, if you can't beat them, join them.  I suppose it helped that he was fighting against old foes.  But also more recent allies.
I don't know.  It was what it was. 

Negotiating with  hostile Sioux, sketch by Remington. 

 They said that we might hunt our buffalo 
In this our land 
Forever. 
Now they come 
To break that promise. 
Shall we cower, dumb? 
Or shall we say: 
First kill us — here we stand!

~ From Book Five, The Twilight of the Sioux, of
John Neihard's Cycle of the West

Antelope on the Northern Cheyenne reservation.

Busted!

I've had a similar experience with both my mom and dad.

Who hasn't, I suppose, but still it's a funny moment when you

discover the font of all wisdom and sage advice used to be

a wild and crazy guy or a spring-break dancing fool.

A curious tale

 A short story just a few pages long written by the English novelist John Buchan. 
First published in the January-June,1910, issue of Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine.
The prose is rich and a pleasure to read. The old half-lovely, half-ugly glory of the pagan world is painted perfectly, and there is a simple grace in how the story fails to make a single, certain conclusion.


The Grove of Ashtaroth

The lines of poetry at the beginning of the story are from Paul Verlaine's poem, Grotesques, collected in Poèmes saturniens, published in 1866.  The "their" in the first line refers to fantastic figures mocked and avoided by the wise, the foolish, and children.

C'est enfin que dans leurs prunelles
Rit et pleure-fastidieux—
L'amour des choses eternelles
Des vieux morts et des anciens dieux!

Finally, it is in their eyes
that laughs and weeps fastidiously
That love of things eternal,
of the aged dead and ancient gods!

A sweet but sad song from the 1950s. I can remember my grandmother listening to this song on her old floor model hi-fi record player.  I wonder whatever happened to all her LPs and that stereo?  The stereo was the same vintage as the big 33⅓ records.  Worked fine and sounded great.
Well, for sure, social stigma and public shame were real things back in those days.  Of course, now, who would care?

Overheard: "The peer review system put both Socrates and Jesus to death."