Bashō! Bashō! Bashō!

Earth on foot 32

Tokyo 

24 Jan 26 Saturday 

When a country

is defeated, there remain only

mountains and rivers, and on a

ruined castle in spring only

 grasses

thrive. I sat down on my hat and

wept bitterly till I almost

forgot

time.

—Bashō

A thicket of summer grass

Is all that remains

Of the dreams and ambitions

Of ancient warriors

—-A Narrow Road to the Deep North

trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa

In busy Tokyo, Bashō, Japanese master of the haiku, makes appearances here and there, most notably across the Sumida River in Fukagawa where his students built him a hut. A small garden and statue overlook the intersections of waters there and when I came upon the spot on a sunny cold day, I paid my respects by creating a haiku. I learned that the original form of haiku was collaborative—one person did a 5-7-5 verse, gave it to a friend who then added a 7-7 verse. This was in the 16th century —fun to imagine; sounds like was a big, wordy party—interestingly the form Bashō felt most true to his nature. I texted my haiku to family but haven’t heard back with their end refrains:

Walking the steep step 

Still pond leaves float Bashō sits

Sun warms my right ear

Captivated by Bashō, I began reading his later travel writing work, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, unsurprisingly a calming and meditative experience. I definitely plan to move on to Nozarashi Kikō (野ざらし紀行), variously translated as The Records of a Weather-Exposed Skeleton or Travelogue of Weather-Beaten Bones. (Who doesn’t love la good skeleton tale?)

every day is a journey, and the journey itself home

—Bashō, The Narrow Road to the Deep North

On walkabout in Tokyo (my journey and my home, now), shrines, of which there are many—frequently catch my eye. Swept each morning with care, usually by an older woman or man, these spaces provide moments of stillness in the otherwise crowded landscape. From near and far commuters fly by, or await a light to change, a train to arrive. Metros deep underground run their routes while above exists an equally busy parallel world of stunningly tall buildings and towers. It is necessary to take a deep hot bath, a tradition here. Or visit a shrine.

A man runs by in shorts, giving me a frisson of sympathy— my run along the Sumida during the rinse and spin cycle left me with chill fingertips. The sun has set and it is cold outside, but warm here amongst the dryers. A sinewy man with black spectacles quickly comes into the frame. Suddenly, he dismounts his bicycle while it still moves, pulls the glass door open and, in seemingly one extended gesture, removes his clean laundry single-armed, making a dismayed grunt at the still damp items, and with two long lopes he’s through the same glass door and gone. Did I fall asleep and dream his appearance? Was he, as in the kabuki play The Catalpa and the Spider, a disguised mischievous phantom sent from the dark forest?

Things in Tokyo move quickly, or remain still, quixotically at the same moment. It’s hard, to explain. And how is it that the world’s largest city could ever feel empty? Yet at times it does. 

On another note—amazingly, there is a sneaker cleaner at the laundromat. Why are these machines not everywhere?? I used it earlier and our kicks came out clean and dry—in 20 mins!

Late January at Best Laundry Asakusa—where “Every Day is a New Day”. So true.

Bonus Bashō for Truly Intrigued!

‘The months and days are the travellers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers. Those who float away their lives on ships or who grow old leading horses are forever journeying, and their homes are wherever their travels take them. Many of the men of old died on the road, and I too for years past have been stirred by the sight of a solitary cloud drifting with the wind to ceaseless thoughts of roaming.

Last year I spent wandering along the seacoast. In autumn I returned to my cottage on the river and swept away the cobwebs. Gradually the year drew to its close. When spring came and there was mist in the air, I thought of crossing the Barrier of Shirakawa into Oku. I seemed to be possessed by the spirits of wanderlust, and they all but deprived me of my senses. The guardian spirits of the road beckoned, and I could not settle down to work.

I patched my torn trousers and changed the cord on my bamboo hat. To strengthen my legs for the journey I had moxa burned on my shins. By then I could think of nothing but the moon at Matsushima. When I sold my cottage and moved to Sampū’s villa, to stay until I started on my journey, I hung this poem on a post in my hut:

kusa no to mo
sumikawaru yo zo
hina no ie

Translation:

Even a thatched hut
May change with a new owner
Into a doll’s house.

—Translation Donald Keene