I present a new standard for entry into the canon: quality writing also involves the ability to write effectively for consumption on device. Writing is not dead, Internet purveyors are recognizing that some people simply prefer to read. If this makes us all a little more like haiku writers, I think Snyder, Kerouac, Whitman, Austen, and Twain would give a cosmic shrug.
I don't know how to become a traditionally published writer ethically, because I would need to see a transparently sustainable supply chain before I would allow books under my name to happen. Maybe I will oversee the publishing of Arisugawa Park myself, on very thin paper made from bamboo, in Manila. Limited to an edition of 1,000, planted in hostels, gardens, and local places. Could start a fabric revolution in publishing?
I am now envisioning the three "proprietors" in Roppongi that Hayao meets. They are in a sense the three gatekeepers of the underworld.* But they are also actual people I met in Roppongi, once upon a year. And because I did not know them well (though we talked life on street corners) they are indelible archetypes, detailed by what I know of humans now. Layers upon layers.
The music. Oh the music. What the world is, what it is coming to and where it will be. All wrapped up in a West Coast horn solo, conversing with bari sax. Foghorn, low in the pocket, as this fb thread with cousin trumpeter (and new dad) Paul attests. The track is Pepper Adams and Thad Jones' Mean What You Say.
For completists, I am listening to some interesting Youtube-sourced songs these days, including Jimi Hendrix' spirit-laden 8 minute version of Cherokee Mist and James Hendricks' "lonely together" original lp-version of Summer Rain. I am also digging Bob Marley's rough rough God Of All Ages (goes on too long). Thinking how to combine it with Heat of the Day in the studio, as a Marley track within the Chasing Habagat song cycle. The contrast between these two acoustic sketches, recorded only eight years apart (1968 and 1976), is illuminating.
Then all the members of the daughters of Eimura raised their hands and waited for the sacrifice. (A cryptic preview of an old/new work on ice).