From Yuri To Yuri _ Japanese Womanhood Across Borders Of Time A Contemporary Renku Poem (a work in progress) By Yuri Matsueda and Yuri Kageyama.
(15) take this knife lay it down on a round table of rotting wood a child trapped in a body with big pale breasts a lipstick mouth listen to the end coming in silence a frog with a tadpole tail a tadpole with frog legs too much hope isn't good you know what to do when things never change
neoteny neoteny
^___<
(16) hot roses vapored became instant ash left their reflection on his bones highlighted in green he is as they say clean pristine
^___<
(17) to yuri from yuri my solitary audience in blindness i speak to you our world sighs breathing in poem a wilting whimper a stabbing flash of sunflower don't cry, don't die, don't lie no one listens in deafness but you speak to me you are my solitary audience
(1-6) _ where it all started, and which goes to show sometimes all you need is one person to connect with in a special way to create poetry. Yuri and I are both women bilingual/bicultural poets/writers with what we feel is a special sensitivity. It goes without saying we realize we are creating for a niche market. Just kidding. It makes sense to us and that's what counts.
Bejeweled gourds and intricately decorated dolls from Mayu Kikuchi make for yet another but superbly whimsical statement in Japanese neoteny art. I asked her why so much of Japanese art looks this way, and she says that's so established these days, that's what sells and what art teachers steer you toward. "Before, I used to do more grotesque pieces, like a knife stabbing the head," she motions with her hand toward her forehead, smiling, "and then things are spurting out." She and her mother were selling her lovingly handmade works at an annual summer craft fair in Shiodome, Tokyo. She has huge dolls, characters from strange tales in her mind, modern-day versions of Bunraku puppets. Those weren't for sale because they had taken so long to make, said Kikuchi, 25. Other works weren't quite so priceless. And so one of her cloth fish and "kokeshi" madames now hang in our living room, swimming with joy and doubt about where they stand in the world of universal art.
From Yuri To Yuri _ Japanese Womanhood Across Borders Of Time A Contemporary Renku Poem (a work in progress)
Yuri Matsueda and I have been taking turns, going back and worth, to build a narrative epic poem. The section below, our latest, is by Yuri Matsueda. My segment that preceded it is haiku. All this follows our previous poems. Our collaboration continues.
From Yuri to Yuri _ Japanese Womanhood Across Borders of Time A Contemporary Renku Poem (a work in progress) (13)
HAIKU
ステンドグラス ひかりを染める 妻のゆび
stained glass nudging color into light my wife's fingers
春の朝 ピンクが爆発 シフォン舞う
spring morning pink explodes chiffon whirls
なき孫が 小皺に霞む 化粧水
dead grandchild a blurring thought lost in wrinkles skin lotion's smell
田んぼにも 見える砂漠の 地平線
rice paddies you can see it a desert horizon
浜名湖に 沈め忘れる 父の虐待
at Hamanako forgetting burying beatings by my father
桜ちり ここにいます！と どぶによむ
sakura petals falling, write "I am here!" into the ditch
So I've put all the haiku together that I wrote recently. In two parts, they are my segments for the work-in-progress poem "From Yuri To Yuri," a collaboration with Yuri Matsueda. The first part of the series.
Women like me probably feel they've all gone through their lives suffering some kind of discrimination for being female and for being non-white. And now, I am starting to realize _ and maybe I am lucky for not having to see this earlier _ that I am going to encounter another reason for discrimination: Age! I was naive: I thought that with age, women will be seen less sexually desirable as females, and that would help even out the score and lead to more equality. No such thing. Japan is a culture that worships youth, which is strange (or maybe not so strange) given that this is one of the most rapidly aging societies on earth. In the US, youngsters get pushed around because they have no power, money or status. And that's why we grew up saying: Don't trust anyone over 30. Agism, it turns out, is just as ridiculous as discrimination on the basis of sex and race. Age really has nothing to do with anything. But there seems to be a fear about the inability to keep up with the latest. Appearance is another obvious factor. Yuri Kageyama gains another battlefront! Kimiko Date is making a comeback in tennis at 38. Her husband, a racing driver, told her she may have always won up to now, but what she must learn now is that she must lose, sometimes to those who are younger than she is. This struck me as very wise words. That may sound like a contradiction, after all I said about agism, but it's not, really: We must learn to accept defeat, including defeat to those who are younger than us, because, after all, we're getting older, and statistically there are going to be more people who are younger than you, if you live longer. (We never accept discrimination _ which is totally, totally different from defeat judged by performance, which is irrelevant to age per se.) No one wins all the time _ age and experience are no guarantee for your win. You win some and lose some. And it's just as important to accept rightful defeat as it is to keep going at it to win.
From Yuri To Yuri _ Japanese Womanhood Across Borders Of Time A Contemporary Renku Poem (a work in progress) continued from previous: By Yuri Matsueda and Yuri Kageyama
(7)
i finally know / why being young hurts more / it's not just we feel everything more clearly/ we don't have as many memories / everything isn't yet a blur/ you haven't felt this anguish, have you, this same pain / babies/ wanted unwanted/ Cesareans, abortions, stillbirths, breech births, miscarriage/ that little baby who never was / we're harassed on the job, molested on the train, date-raped and then raped by that stranger that criminal you despise but can barely remember his face / we lose weight and self-confidence and dreams / we can't find a job/ we are vulnerable / hungering for love, respect, understanding / when we know better / really / that no one understands/ we watch them die, hobbled, losing their minds, decaying with cancer, bed-ridden, speechless / we stand alone when they leave / face to face/ the hole / a dirt-filled grave/ we no longer bear the waiting of that fetus growing within us / wanted unwanted / no longer thirst for love / reaching for that partner / for babies/ wanted unwanted/ we don't remember / in/ our own death/ we can't forget /
(8)
死は容赦なく前触れもなく
楽で 退屈しのぎに 乱暴に 消費した 時間の先に 唐突な 死があって 立ち止まると
静かな愛があった
(9)
you are my daughter the little girl i never had that woman asleep in my son's arms nursing a new life that has yet to be
but i see you are gone leaving behind nothing but a deep passage of time and a shaking pool of tears
(10)
駆け上った 階段 廊下の窓をこじ開ける 煙突探して 目を凝らすも ただ白い雲が過ぎてゆく
カラカラ積もる 珊瑚礁のよう 吹けばたちまち塵となる 風に乗ってどこへ行く あおい空へ伸びてゆく
(11)
sky scattered clouds dreams dissipate
i fly
without wings sky
swooping endless
***
(12)
throw me in the seven seas where my young breasts freeze
around thirty you've turned the corner past your expiration date still looking for mr right clinging to a sex in the city view on life strutting the career highway on jimmy choos while your market value drops a chloe bag on an outlet rack there's no space, get real, between the cute nymphomaniac teen and the victorious pregnant housewife except for trips to massage salons giggly ethnic dinners out with the girls nowhere affairs with the married boss stop wondering why no one good asks you out stop asking why no one notices you're smart, beautiful, on-the-go, in top notch belly-dancing-lessons shape and ever so available life is not a Yahoo auction life is not a Disneyland make-a-wish-list you must stop and ask yourself how you can become that person who can love without asking for anything back in return
Reading at the Kuraki Noh Theater Dec. 6, 2008 with Yumi Miyagishima on violin, playing "Sleep" by Kyosuke Koizumi and Winchester Nii Tete on kpanlogo percussion.
I'm sitting in a stuffy waiting room, not bothering to wonder why the others _ troubled looking women of all ages and shapes _ would need to be there. It is clear birth is not the reason we are all here, even the nurses in pale pink outfits and the feminist gynecologist with the stern voice. I am too nervous and worried to feel shame or guilt. I just want Miu to come out from behind the curtains where she has gone _ safe and alive and in one piece and the job done. This is not a good feeling. But this is all I can think. We have all been there _ our legs open _ to remind us of what we did, not with just anyone but a man we truly loved but maybe who didn't love us enough _ the chilly metal enters like an uncutting but unfeeling knife, merciless, guiltless, sinless until our drugged minds leave us _ start counting: one, two, three, four _ like angels who have given up. And we feel nothing and we remember nothing. We do not think of the baby that was, that could have been, that never was. It is a tiny wormlike thing that must be removed like a bloody tumor because it is not a human being yet. And I only want her to come out of there from behind the sterile curtains, safe and healthy and smiling. I know she doesn't want to part with this human being that never was. She wanted it to go on and on, feeling that person inside of her. "It's not something to do immediately; that's not right," she says. She has waited a week alone. She has not told anyone. I don't realize this: All I am thinking about is her, not the thing that is inside of her. But the baby who never was is that grandchild who never was, the future of the race, generations to come, who looks like your grandfather, your father, your son, the man you love, those little feet that run to you and bring snotty cheek against cheek, filled with life when you are only nearing death. When she finally comes out of her drugged sleep, walks courageously to me in the waiting room, faking a smile, her breath smells like an old woman.
dot and line, dot and line like marching ants spilling from score sheets to table to equator to nightmares black notations of silent thoughts of music muted ramblings of an obscure composer puttering notes only he and i can hear fragments of jazz rhythms broken crazed despised
did you know Ingmar Bergman was terrified of death but as he grew older, as he approached that dreadful moment, he was no longer afraid
did you know life is forever when death comes there will be no life to feel
i was lost when i was your age you will help me find myself at your age with this poem
Reworked to add a new line: "Charlie Chan's Angel"
Little YELLOW Slut By Yuri Kageyama
You know her: That Little YELLOW Slut, proudly gleefully YELLOW-ly hanging on Big Master's arm, War bride, geisha, GI's home away from home, Whore for last samurai, Hula dancer with seaweed hair, Yoko Ohno, Akihabara cafe maid, Hi-Hi Puffy Ami/Yumi, Kawaiiii like keitai, Back-up dancer for Gwen Stefani, Your real-life Second Life avatar Eager to deliver your freakiest fetish fantasies, Disco queen, skirt up the crotch, Fish-net stockings, bow-legged, anorexic, raisin nipples, tip-toeing Roppongi on Stiletto heels.
Yessu, i spikku ingrishhu, i raikku gaijeeen, they kiss you, hold your hand, open doors for me, open legs for you, giggling pidgin, covering mouth, so happy to be Little YELLOW Slut.
Everybody's seen her: That Little YELLOW Slut, waiting at Home, cooking rice, the Japanese Condoleezza Rice, Smelling of sushi, Breath and vagina, Fish and vinegar, Fermented rice, Honored to be Cleaning lady, Flight attendant for Singapore Airlines, Charlie Chan's Angel, Nurse maid, gardener, Japan-expert's wife, Mochi manga face, Yodeling minyo, growling enka, Sex toy, slant-eyes closed, licking, tasting, swallowing STD semen, Every drop.
Yessu, i wanna baby who looohkuh gaijeen, double-fold eye, translucent skin, international school PTA, maybe grow up to be fashion model, even joshi-ana, not-not-not happy to be Little YELLOW Slut.
I recognize her: That Little YELLOW Slut, rejecting Japanese, rejected by Japanese, Ashamed, Empty inside, They all look alike, Faceless, hoping to forget, escape To America, Slant-eyed clitoris, Adopted orphan, Dream come true for pedophiles, Serving sake, pouring tea, spilling honey, Naturalized citizen, Buying Gucci, Docile doll, Rag-doll, Miss Universe, manic harakiri depressive, rape victim, she is You, she is me.
Hai, hai, eigo wakarimasen, worship Big Master for mind, matter, muscle, money, body size correlates to penis size, waiting to be sexually harassed, so sorry, so many, so sad to be Little YELLOW Slut.
Ikiru by Yuri Kageyama Reading at the Pink Cow in Tokyo June 8,2008.
When you cut your finger against the end of a piece of paper, and it hurts and the blood spurts out, you remember blood, lots of it, curdling red ink with a sweaty smell, is rushing around your body, all of it, brain, eyeballs, cell tissue, spine, toes, your heart is pumping like quivering red rubber and your lungs are going in and out, in and out. When you stop to think about it, you want to scream and you almost forget how to breathe. People who believe in Reincarnation say it would be a waste of lives to have so many people alive and then die and so god must recycle all those lives. It is nothing short of a miracle we continue to live everyday despite all the deaths everyday. And each one of us is dying gradually everyday. But for the most part, we don't get shot, we don't get run over, we don't crash, we don't get a deadly disease, we don't get stabbed, beaten to death, crushed in an earthquake, commit suicide, and we live live live live. And each day adds to the next day and pretty soon we are old but still we live and we don't think about the blood circulating or the each and every breath we take or the fact that we have averted death for the moment. We are alive. But we could at any moment take a long silver needle and poke it in our eye, blinding ourselves in blinding rage. We could jump into the wind from the station platform as the train glides in with a rattle, although the mirror is there to remind us how ghostly we look and make us think again how foolish this act is that we are contemplating to die this moment instead of the next moment when we do get shot or get cancer or our hearts stop or our lungs fail. My mother is dying of pancreas cancer, and I can finally smell death, that unmistakable stench that sticks inside your nostrils for hours, maybe even a day, trailing you from the hospice room. She has lost so much weight she looks like a bird, her nose pointed like a beak in a mummified face. She lies curled up in the bed, her arms clasped into herself, a scrawny embryonic chick in a nest, and her beady eyes are expressionless, unmoving, staring into your eyes, and she won't close them because she knows you are her daughter and these may be the last moments, and she needs to look, but you just want her to close her eyes so you can leave and forget. She couldn't even speak then. When she could still move, when she was at the hospital, not the hospice, where patients are getting treatment to live, she was just a burden on the nurses and they want her to move to a hospice, she would grow delirious on pain-killers and start walking around the hallways naked, announcing: She must leave now because Otoosama _ her husband, my father _ has arrived to get her. My father is dead. Before that, when she was still undergoing tests, and she had always instructed us she never wanted to know it, if she ever got cancer, and so we couldn't tell her, she says to me: "I wasn't a very good mother, was I?" This is a very important conversation. But I brush it off. I don't want to talk about this, do I? because then wouldn't we be talking about her death? "I watch you and your sister, how the both of you think about and interact with your children," she says. "And I realize I wasn't a good parent. I know this watching the both of you as parents." She goes on, matter of fact, her father, was a big believer in education and sent all his children, even the daughters, unusual for those times in Japan, to urban schools. My mother was second from the youngest so she was barely in elementary school when she was sent to live away from home with her sisters and brothers to go to good schools. And so she grew up never knowing the intimacy of a relationship between a mother and child. She doesn't have to apologize. And I should reach out and hug her, but all I remember is how she never stopped him, her husband, my father, when he beat me, how I had to cower, never apologizing, and all she did was sit quietly and pray and be patient and believe the anger will pass like a typhoon, leaving behind just tiny purple bruise marks on sallow skin, as sanity returns to the Ph. D. in engineering, professor, salaryman, head of the household, and all would be well. He needs a break from work, it is stressful, he needs to go the family beach villa. She has already made arrangement, and I must go with him, the ever faithful daughter, because he can't go alone. "It can't be me. It must be you," she says, as though this is decided, ironing the white shirts and folding them on top of each other on the tatami mat. She doesn't tell me until years later. She worried about me every day, praying he wasn't beating me. He didn't beat me. We took turns rowing a wooden boat. We went fishing til our fingers smelled like worms. We lowered cages into the water with fish heads, and drew them up to find crabs entangled with each other. But I can't forgive, not just yet, though no one has to apologize. I call my sister on the train back from the hospital. "She is going to die," I say, breathless, more from excitement than from sadness. She is dying but she is realizing and she is changing. What she is saying is so profound she had to be dying. Really dying. It should have been like the movies. I should have forgiven her, a moment of reconciliation before the moment of death. You are a good mother. Remember all the Ryunosuke Akutagawa stories you read to me in the kitchen, but you told me the stories I wrote, secretly, in big block letters in a worn out notebook were petty and would never amount to anything? Remember how you wanted to go back to school for your Master's degree, but you had to cook and clean and you gave up? Remember how you won awards with those elaborate sumi calligraphy on rice paper, painting ancient words no one could read? Remember how you sat naked in the bath tub, thinking your solitary thoughts, and you hated your husband, my father, because he bought you the wrong-size ring in an overseas business trip? Today, you taught me how people keep evolving til the last moment of life. No, you are not a bad mother at all. This is the best gift you have given me. I have learned the lesson of death although I still can't understand how we manage to keep living day by day, lungs breathing and heart beating and you feel so faraway and I can't remember barely anything else about you.
Reading with violinist Yumi Miyagishima at What the Dickens in Tokyo. The Japanese use the expression "hitono itami wo wakaru/shiru" often, which means "knowing people's pain." It's part of being a conformist society that the quality of being able to understand how others feel is valued. But often this becomes another way of making people feel small and unaccepted because it's a way to define what's correct/not correct in a very narrow way. I wrote this thinking partly about that, but also about the poem by Kenji Miyazawa about that character whom no one would see as a hero _ in Japan or the U.S. _ who is never after societal recognition, carrying on always _ rain or shine _ but the way Miyazawa put it in those memorable first lines: "undefeated neither by rain nor wind ..." Miyazawa is one of Japan's biggest literery figures. But as with many works in Japanese, English translations don't/can't do justice to his greatness.
People Who Know Pain
The World is divided bet- Ween two kinds of People The Winners and the Losers The Takers and the Givers The Famous and the Forgotten The Loved and the Unloved _ Those who don't care and
People who know Pain People who know Pain
when your tongue rolls, the tips of my nipples, piercing knife of betrayal
Vincent Van Gogh John Coltrane Garcia Marquez Toulouse Lautrec Billie Holliday Richard Wright Kenji Miyazawa
People who know Pain People who know Pain
baby foxes dance, leaving paw marks in the snow, fairy tale of joy
Hermit, victim, Outcast, untouched, Untouchable They travel faceless Shadows on the subway Mute, unconnected, Unknowing of their own Pain
People who know Pain People who know Pain
bitter memories grow a cancer pomegranate bleeding and rotting
I'd rather shelter that Pain alone A powerless nobody, Ashamed, shunned, Stench of insignificance, Laughing the idiot's laugh, Running forgotten errands, Dying before living like other
People who know Pain People who know Pain
a zillion light years the planet pulsates timeless soundless universe
I'd never be that superior someone who Conquers, fornicates, lynches, Deposits paychecks, plans careers, Forms opinions, writes reviews, Weighs pros and cons, wins awards, Attends receptions, discriminates, Never knowing, shrugging off, how painful
perfume, rubbing shoulders, we rattle silently over the tracks blouses, tucked bags, even powdered chins, up too close to really see; we sense only relief we smell no greasy beards or sweaty suits or beer breath of the morning after _ this morning commuter train "josei senyo sha" reserved for women only, introduced to protect the gentle sex from those groping dark hands preying prying fingers, stroking thigh, poking panties, pretending to be penises right in public transport, "josei senyo sha" this is the kindness of Japanese society: let chikan go unchecked, forgiven for their mischief, and give us, women, this special spot farthest from the action farthest from the ticket gates the first car up front, and the most dangerous if we crash
Images from Photos by Memo Vasquez and hi_bana. Poster design by teruyuki kawabata.
SUNDAY JUNE 8, 2008
Poet Yuri Kageyama presents the TOKYO FLOWER CHILDREN with Teruyuki Kawabata (percussion), Winchester Nii Tete (percussion), Haruna Shimizu (kpanlogo), Keiji Kubo (didgeridoo), Yumi Miyagishima (violin), Carl Freire (guitar). in an evening of MULTICULTURAL POETRY AND MUSIC. The Pink Cow Villa Moderuna B1 1-3-18 Shibuya, Shibuya-ku Tokyo 150-0002 DJ C.Geez (super soul music and dope true-school hip hop) 7 p.m. Poetry and music 8 p.m. Free admission. Doors open 5 p.m. Come early for dinner and the best seats! Yummy Pink Cow food and drinks available to order at the bar!
Please celebrate the publication of Yuri Kageyama's story in "POWWOW: American Short Fiction from Then to Now," edited by Ishmael Reed with Carla Blank (Da Capo Press). Kageyama's works have appeared in many literary publications, including "Y'Bird," "Greenfield Review," "On a Bed of Rice" and "Stories We Hold Secret." She has a book of poems "Peeling." The TOKYO FLOWER CHILDREN is a project Kageyama began last year to collaborate with Tokyo musicians in readings of her poetry.
Music maker, designer and self-proclaimed “shy and wagamama only child,” TERUYUKI KAWABATA leads Tokyo band CigaretteSheWas. The group has a CD album coming out this year.
Master percussionist WINCHESTER NII TETE hails from the honorable Addy-Amo-Boye families of drummers of Ghana. He plays with the Ghana national troupe, Sachi Hayasaka, Yoshio Harada and Takasitar.
HARUNA SHIMIZU of CigaretteSheWas fell in love with Ghana’s kpanlogo drum while she was in college. She has kept at it as freely as her spirit moves her.
KEIJI KUBO, who plays the didgeridoo and bass, is a linguist and student. He has total respect for aboriginal culture and all cultural integrity.
Violinist YUMI MIYAGISHIMA plays with CigaretteSheWas, Kyosuke Koizumi, The little witch and other groups.
CARL FREIRE is a Tokyo-based writer, translator and musician.
DEEJAY C. GEEZ from St.Louis has been a DJ since 1997 and living in Japan since 2006.
Carl Freire and I reading "an ode to the Caucasian male" at What the Dickens in Tokyo.
Published in "Peeling," by Yuri Kageyama, Berkeley, Calif.: I. Reed Press, 1988. First published in "Women Talking, Women Listening."
an ode to the Caucasian male
white man white man with the silky blond hair the emerald-blue eyes and the cool million dollar grin I won't mind being a Suzy Wong for you. cuz I'm tired of the laundry-men and the dirty restaurant cooks who can only smell of won ton soup and talk about chowmein they don't have the powers, the style you do seems you've got to be white to really be a man the long sleek legs with the acid rock walk in the hot tight pants where the warm prick dwells it's okay you see only the race in me just a stereotype, not my personality it's okay cuz, white man you have whiteness to give.
Winchester Nii Tete hails from a famous family of drummers in Ghana. And Tokyo is so lucky to have him. His playing is energetic, joyous, dignified, virtuous. Behind him is Teruyuki Kawabata, leader of Cigarette She Was , a composer/lyricist who plays the guitar, percussion and other instruments. On his right is Keiji Kubo, a language expert who totally respects aboriginal culture, and plays the bass/didgeridoo. On Winchester's left is Haruna Shimizu, also with Cigarette She Was, who someday wants to have her own cafe-on-wheels. I get in a lecture mood when I hang out with such talented pure-spirited people. I have told Winchester he has beautiful eyes. I have told Teruyuki his "Jounetsu wo torimodosou" is a great song. I have told Keiji his girlfriend Akiko is "KawaYUUUUUI!" And so, at the Pit Inn in Shinjuku, the other night, I told Haruna she must stick with the man she chooses to love because loving someone isn't about weighing the pro's and con's to get a good deal. Too many Japanese women are still waiting for that deal _ like they are prizes to be won. Love is not something you receive from someone else. It is all and only about your Self. It's a lifelong battle _ like Art and Life. Love endures through tick and thin, through sickness and health, through the good times and the bad.
It's real fur. But Chie Imai has added recycled polyester as fabric to a few of her 2008-2009 collection items to make it luxury fur with a green conscience. My story. Two women were sitting across the table from me during the show. One of them said with a giggle: "This fur costs 20 million yen. You can buy an apartment with that." Then the other said: "You cannot buy an apartment with 20 million yen." Imai says global warming has hurt the demand for fur, although sales are growing in new markets like Russia and China. And so she has also come up with "seasonless fur" products. She showed me a short jacket of white lacey fabric with white fur trim that she said can be worn in air-conditioned places even in the summer.
Poetry by Yuri Kageyama. Guitar and music arrangement by Carl Freire. Recorded in Green Village Studios, Tokyo, April 13, 2008. "an Ode to the Caucasian male," from Yuri Kageyama, "Peeling," Berkeley, Calif: I. Reed Press, 1988. First published in "Women Talking, Women Listening."
an ode to the Caucasian male
white man white man with the silky blond hair the emerald-blue eyes and the cool million dollar grin I won't mind being a Suzy Wong for you. cuz I'm tired of the laundry-men and the dirty restaurant cooks who can only smell of won ton soup and talk about chowmein they don't have the powers, the style you do seems you've got to be white to really be a man the long sleek legs with the acid rock walk in the hot tight pants where the warm prick dwells it's okay you see only the race in me just a stereotype, not my personality it's okay cuz, white man you have whiteness to give.
Rei Sato is one of Japan's brilliant young artists who are part of Kaikai Kiki, the studio of Takashi Murakami. Her whimsical lyrical works take the pop manga style of the Murakami School, defiant, maddeningly vibrant, so hardened and cynical, a step further, perhaps, in a more serene and introverted direction. They give a view of the world of a child fingerpainting fish, the happy sun, girls with quizzical expressions and weedlike flowers, sometimes on fabric, sometimes on enlarged photos that are lazy snapshots, like those taken on cell phones, purposely making no assertions whatsoever except in seeing, recording and being. A makeshift cafe at the gallery _ low coffee tables, muted lighting, a guitarist sending bubbly sounds through electronic equipment, hushed conversations _ also included a book shelf filled with knickknacks: fuzzy stuffed animals, figures, plastic watches, books, a half-filled pot of herb tea, tawdry memorabilia, everyday items that give glimpses into the artist's mind. Making your way toward the back, ducking hanging beads and pieces of cloth of different colors, you see that the works become more and more like scribbles, pencil drawings of tiny girls, forgotten notes, scrawled on bits of paper, fragments of thoughts, mischievous markings on newspaper. And in the very back next to old posters of Japanese movies are graphic art from Yumeji Takehisa and the words: "I want to be a poet."
Xavel is the company behind the Tokyo Girls Collection fashion show and mobile/PC sites for electronic shopping that showcase some of Japan's biggest brands _ fashion houses puzzling to anyone other than young Japanese women with names like Deicy, Titty, Cecil McBee, Spiral Girl. The shows, which attract thousands of people, work more like catalog shopping. The people can order clothes right then and there as the models prance on the runway before their eyes. It's a great business idea. And these women are certainly having fun. Whether their energy and goodwill can be channeled into something other than just-looking-good remains to be seen.
Poet, writer in Tokyo. "The New and Selected Yuri _ Writing From Peeling till Now" Ishmael Reed Publishing Co. 2011. "Peeling" I. Reed Press. Poems, stories, essays in "Y'Bird" "Pow Wow: Charting the Fault Lines in the American Experience _ Short Fiction from Then to Now" "San Francisco Stories" "On a Bed of Rice" "Konch" "Breaking Silence" "Greenfield Review" "Beyond Rice" "River Styx" "Other Side River" "Yellow Silk" "Stories We Hold Secret" "MultiAmerica" and other publications. Read with Ishmael Reed, Shuntaro Tanikawa, Geraldine Kudaka, Victor Hernandez Cruz, Russel Baba, Seamus Heaney, Shozu Ben, Winchester Nii Tete, Eric Kamau Gravatt, Takenari Shibata, Toshinori Takimoto, Teruyuki and Haruna Kawabata, Keiji Kubo, Yumi Miyagishima, Carl Freire, Abel Coelho, Yuri Matsueda. "Talking TAIKO" a film by Yoshiaki Tago documents her poetry. "A Back Alley Asian American Love Story of Sorts" by Niccolo Caldararo of her story was shown at the San Francisco and New York Asian American film festivals, won awards at the 1986 Palo Alto Film Festival, 1987 Ann Arbor Film Festival, 1988 Onion City Film Festival. Magna cum laude Cornell University, M.A. the University of California Berkeley.
