Still life

Ruby dust, silk & stone

Days of russet and umber

I traversed to Mitaki temple today, one of my fave spots for solitude and tranquillity here in Ol’ Hirosh. Clusters of vermillion, scarlet and burnt orange maple leaves blazed overhead, a delicate frieze against the blue sky. Many people were meandering through the gardens, in fact, picnics were held beneath the tall, ghost-white trees with leaves of pale yellow. Canvases and smudged palettes were abandoned in hedges, leafy groves and in the shadows of the temple while the tired painters lunched on bento and drank from flasks of tea.

Modern-day crones?

On my return from Matsue, I alighted from the omnibus and observed a young woman – her back turned – with a shock of hot pink hair and an array of ragged, colourful layers waiting at the bus-stop. I hovered, fussing with my suitcase and brushing down my black Zara jodhpurs, sensing eccentric style and curious make-up, and hoping that she would turn around so I could admire her sartorial wares front-on. However, when she finally spun about I was gob-smacked: her face was painted with thick chocolate paint, her eyes were encircled with white-glowing haloes and down her nose was a long silver lick of paint. All rather startling, but I had to remain composed and wheeled my suitcase forth without a twitch.

From my observations along Hondori Arcade, I knew that this fashion trend was somehow related to the burnt-to-a-crisp-sausage tan and Hawaiian-inspired clothes of the ganguro, where bronze skin, white lipstick, bright florals and crazy blonde hair are prized above all. But the girl with hot pink hair was a step further than that. Quite a leap-frog away, actually.

And so I undertook some cyber sleuthing and discovered that said girl was of the yamanba fashion. Curiously, despite its day-glo colours, yamanba has a dark history. The name of this style descends from yama-uba, the word for "mountain crone", an infamous character who scared the daylights out of little kidlets in Japanese folklore. Apparently, the traditional yama-uba has a shock of white-gold hair; the same crowning glory of most yamanba gals. The fashion’s peculiar penchant for the white line painted down the chocolate brown nose also renders yamanba gals' faces skeletal and frightening. In a way, this luridly-coloured but spookily made-up fashion is like the Western goth – but amusingly in reverse! Brown, charcoaled facepaint, instead of white; white-glittery panda-eyes, instead of kohl-smudged; and many-hued clothes of unspeakable fluorescence instead of sombre blacks, greys and velvety shades. But the origins of yamanba are that of fear, death and good ol’ horror – a very gothic twist!

Fetch me Bacon Sandwich, darling, I need to make a call!

You see – not a porky pie was uttered, I was telling the truth all along. Here it is, chaps and gals, the porcine telephonic wonderment of blue piggery! Isn’t it marvellous? I especially adore its curly tail. How dazzlingly modern! A bit of a blue point, though, is the way its knobbly bits rub against my ear – rather painfully! This is a most pesky aspect, but nothing an application of Hello Kitty ear-muffs and soothing Brillo Pads ear lozenge won’t fix!

Things one awaits

The scarlet finale of autumn.
A lover's visit; sweet, despite its brevity.
Books. Packages in the post. Winter boots.
Contemplating kimonos.
Pine. Red berries. Frost.
Adventures in a new town.
The arrival of good friends.
Christmas.
Foxes of stone. The boom of the drum.
The first fall of snow.
Three-three-three. Together we drink.
Another beginning.

Country rambles

After our hike, Crazy Aya and I wandered around a charming village in Sandankyo that consisted of shops selling local produce and traditional-style Japanese farmhouses with their burgeoning vegetable and fruit gardens. Firstly we meandered through the stalls and took refreshments of hot tea, sliced persimmons and charcoaled fish-on-sticks. Then we rambled uphill amongst the farms. A cat lapped at a bowl of milk by the tatami-matted veranda of a farmhouse. Persimmons, strung in neat rows like pegged laundery, dried and curled in the sun on lines zigzagging housefronts, or ladened the trees with their bulging orangeness. Bunches of red chillis were left like forgotten bouquets on the porches. A slim blue damselfly skimmed my cheek as it looped the loop and alighted on a nearby branch. Bonneted women, with baskets on their backs, bent over in a permanent stoop as they reaped vegetables from their gardens. The wayside was cheerful with scattered wildflowers: purple, mauve and red. A fine hawk, regal and bronze, watched us sternly from a telegraph pole. Ah, what a quaint picture is the Japanese countryside!

Leaves Become Screens

Hiking in Sandankyo

Crazy Aya and myself traversed an hour and a half outside of Ol' Hirosh to visit the national park, Sandankyo Gorge, most famous for its blazing maples in autumn.

The warm, glorious weather has kept the reddening of maples at bay, so only a smattering of reds could be seen today. Most of the forest-covered hills were green and yellow-brown, with bursts of yellow and orange providing much pleasure to us hikers. Many folk had taken to the hills with kiddies and grandparents in tow, many a serious hiker equipped with a sturdy walking stick (ranging from a knobbly bit of wood to a skier's pole) tied with bells, so that everyone jingled on the ascent to view the three waterfalls.

Most surprising of all was the number of pets in the caravan. Aya and I noted eight dogs accompanying their intrepid owners, ranging from shaggy-haired daschunds to a Siberian husky, and one hiker even brought along their cat, a regal, pure white creature with milky green eyes. The cat was draped around the hiker's neck like the fur stole of an Arctic fox. A most edifying and distracting sight as we tried maintaining our balance on the unbarricaded, narrow path which clung to a plunging slope (concluding in a ravine) and juggled our water bottles simultaneously!

Lost!

A weekend outing to Miyajima was had with Sir S and the visiting Greenwood-Winspearses from Melbourne. We took in the fresh sea air along the prom and watched young lovers admiring the view of the red torii gate mirrored in the sea. Ropeways were flying-foxed and pinnacles reached in our ascent to Mt Misen. Despite close shaves with frisky deer and a surprising absence of red-bottomed monkies, the descent down to the bay was fraught with misleading maps, a lack of mile markers and too many steps for one's calves and bott to cope with. After 2.5 hours of down-diddly-down and up-diddly-up, we made it just in time to the Udon Tavern back on the flats, where miso soup was greedily slurped and hot oysters were deftly gulped to revive our flagging travellers' spirits. Even now my calves are all a-tremble at the thought of our trek, but at least I have a handy box of Miyajima's famed momiji manju (maple leaf-shaped cakes), chocolate-flavoured at that, to numben these recollections. It is also a nasty thing when one starts dreaming of descending a never-ending staircase, to awake with sore legs!

Socks ahoy!

Reminiscent of The Cure's "Inbetween Days" era, where many a rainbow-hued sock walloped Robert Smith on the head, many footwear shoppes in Ol' Nippon are stocked with winter sockery and full-leg hosiery in anticipation of frostier weather. The shelves are stacked with stripey socks, polkadot socks, socks with novelty prints of love-hearts, bats, cats and frogs; intimidating glove-socks with a snug "finger" for each toe and traditional tabi socks, with a separate woolly compartment for one's big toe (for easy wear with getta or thong-like sandals).

I snaffled up a pair of each texture: woollen, fleece and terri-towellin' fabrics. The latter two are adorned with white fluffy pom-pom ties, and the former is resplendent in orange, pink, yellow and red stripes, the most cheerful socks ever.

Now that the autumn nights are indeed getting chillier, it is a happy sight to come home to cosy, bright socks hanging from my bedknob. Oh how glorious to potter about the house clasping a cup of hot chocolate whilst donning fluffy, stripey socks!

Pumpkinery

Halloween frolics! First stop was Miss Y's apaato in Yokogawa for a small gathering of maybe seven people, including friends the host Miss Y (who wore a turbanned poo on her head, ala The Mole in the children's classic "The Story of the Mole Who Knew It Was None of his Business", further confirming my suspicions of the smutty Japanese sense of humour: her entire costume was a mere poo), Crazy Aya (as a tattooed Piratess of the Caribbean) and Maharaja M (as himself, a Bollywood movie star). I donned a thrown-together Kiki the Witch ensemble with Jiji-in-a-cage prop. Halloween fare included cute Japanese confectionary called Kinoko no Yama ("mountain mushrooms"), cheesy snacks in the shapes of whales, squid, pufferfish and sunfish and other odd sea creatures, and Ghostie Brioche. I adore the chocolate mushrooms, with stalks of biscuit and caps of pure chocolate - how delish! The evening was beautifully rounded off when Miss Y discarded her poo-hat and whipped out a massive bit of wood - otherwise known as a koto, or Japanese harp. Its tremuluous, mysterious twangings were evocative of Japanese court life and its powder-white kimomo-clad beauties.

Then we taxi'd to music hall, Chinatown, in the neon labyrinth of Nagarakawa's nightlife district for the yearly Halloween Ball. There I met up with fellow scholar Mr J (another dastardly pirate with mobile moustache and migratory beard!) and the lovely Miss K (PlayBunny) for an evening of dancing, drinking, and the artful dodge on the dancefloor to (i) avoid treading on a devil's tail (ii) prevent unravelling a lav-papered mummy or (iii) escape from a swaggering, flirtatious superhero clad only in red Y-fronts. The place was teeming with gaijin and locals alike. To my surprise, while dancing with a troupe of French maids, a pimp, and someone who'd come dressed as a Nova teacher (and, ye Gods, so he was!), I was accosted by a young man in a dress, leopard skin heels and a Louis Vuitton bag. "Hello Ember Sensei!" he squealed, "I am your student!!!!! Please meet my wife". And so the young man introduced me to a nurse in a white pvc outfit, and then stole away on the dancefloor to the tune of dark dancehall fave "Sex Dwarf". Well, cover me in eggs and flour and bake me for fourteen minutes!

In further Halloween shenanigans, yesterday I esconced myself in La Starbucks and Three Windmills cafe (as my former landlady passed on several gift vouchers - how lovely! As all Nippon visitors know, I'm usually a Tully's gal) so I savoured a Pumpkin Latte over my thrilling read of Maisie Dobbs. And so it was that I was rendered completely batty for the rest of the day! My eyes roved over every object in front of me, bright colours burst into my vision like a spangle of stars, my conversation rattled like machine gunfire so much so that the little nippers in my children's class gave each other worried looks and edged towards the classroom exit. I swear there is something other than pumpkin in that festive Halloween latte!