tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29845482782164910802024-03-13T10:43:28.248+01:00Hideo Asano... is a writer, poet & world traveller ... Afghanistan, Russia, Asia, Europe, Australia & USAhideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-82955301188686619822017-07-15T04:37:00.002+02:002017-07-15T04:37:52.723+02:00My words fly like bullets and shake like an earthquake.hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-17307682219376356722012-10-26T17:46:00.002+02:002012-10-26T21:31:34.727+02:00lone fighterHello everybody, do you want to have this world packed with full of junk books or try to stop the world from slippering into total pop culture? I am still fighting trying to make a bit exciting world where we can meet soulful people. I am still promoting people to read good books which have no market value but literary value. I am still telling people that getting into a bookstore is a hundred times more dangerous than a blind man getting into a jewelry shop to look for a diamond. It makes sense that if any blind man getting into a beautiful bookshop to get tons of toilet papers out of it. How can we blame all the big publishing houses since the whole world covered with dark clouds of commercialism? Well, we all know that junks make money. Before I die, I want to meet one person who could say that "I have no time to eat, I must dig this (book/food) out." I feel sorry to the sea of young people; many of them are already poisoned by junk books, pop culture. Selecting a good book is selecting a good friend. I never wrote a book with ink but with my boiling blood. I will be honored if you support my artistic works. Tell to your friends about a lone fighter.
Hideohideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-60742232404186094832012-06-26T16:34:00.003+02:002012-06-26T16:34:38.713+02:00birdI sing well on a rainy day.
I like good bird not beautiful bird.
I like bad bird not weak bird.
copyright (c) hideo asano 2012hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-91734015681787566332012-06-25T15:07:00.000+02:002012-06-25T15:07:01.375+02:00classic booksClassic books are like good old wine
Junk books are like coca cola
Good bvooks make you feel honoured
Bad books make you feel stupid
Good books you need a shovel to dig
Junk books make you feel you are a great reader
Junk books make publishers richer
Too many books spoil broth
copyright (c) hideo asano 2012hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-77188656432605397922010-12-05T15:17:00.002+01:002010-12-06T13:10:39.535+01:00Thunder of the MountainA personal experience with a small group of Mujaheddin during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Documents a week during the conflict between the rebels and soldiers. The author felt the intimacy of companionship of men facing danger and uncertainty of life. <br />
<br />
The book contains 120 pages with many rare photographs taken by the author. <br />
<br />
Download a sample at <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?4ut89fwa8ut5ds2">mediafire</a>.<br />
<br />
To purchase the full version in PDF format, click the "Buy Now" button below and include your email address (or send a mail with the address).<br />
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_s-xclick"><br />
<input type="hidden" name="encrypted" value="-----BEGIN PKCS7-----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-----END PKCS7-----
"><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/JP/i/btn/btn_buynowCC_LG.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!"><br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"><br />
</form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-49563593303397382712010-12-05T14:43:00.000+01:002010-12-05T14:43:27.099+01:00Silent RebelThis book is about a man’s struggle to survive during the intimate political upheaval of a country ravaged by war between soldiers and rebels in 1978, just a year before the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Qasim, the dedicated surgeon, husband, and father is the man. <br />
<br />
My blood boils at the sight or the tale of any injustice, whoever may be the sufferer and wherever it may have taken place, in just the same way as if I were myself its victim.<br />
-Jean-Jacques Rousseau<br />
<br />
1<br />
<br />
Two young men were carrying a loaded braided-rope cot on their shoulders down on a narrow dirt road. It was covered by a cotton stuffed bed-cloth of colorful flowers. The man in front had a dark mustache and thick beard, and wore an apple-pie-shaped brown polyester woollen hat, tightly rolled up at the brim, pulled down close to his eyebrows. He looked extremely tired, but the fire of determination burned strong in his eyes. He was silhouetted by the harsh early morning glare of the October sun. Two other men were walking behind them, hiding in the shadows created by the high mud and stone fence walls and trees that had only a few leaves left clinging to their barren limbs; one wore a dark unbuttoned vest; another wrapped his upper body tightly with a cream-colored blanket, called a chador, like a shawl over his garment. The four men had carefully slipped through the streets of the outskirts of Kama, in Nangarhar Province in southeastern Afghanistan. They all wore traditional garments of baggy pants and loose knee-length shirts patched with scraps of cloth, apple-pie-hats, and rugged rubber shoes, partly deteriorated by the mud and many years of harsh Afghan heat and frigid winters. <br />
They came to the wooden gate in the middle of the high mud-blocked fence of a house. On the thick concrete header were a pair of the elk-horn antlers. The V-shaped twisted-up elk-horn, like a wood screw, was pointing up to the early morning sky. It was painted red along its edges.<br />
The man in the dark vest rang the bell, pulling the rope by the entrance. <br />
A few minutes later, a voice, still gruff from sleep, came from behind the gate: "Who is it?"<br />
"Dr. Qasim, it's me, Sayyed," whispered the man in the dark vest.<br />
A middle-aged man, wearing an unbuttoned white shirt, slightly opened the left half of the gate. He had an overnight growth of stubble and his hair was in disarray.<br />
"I don't want any trouble," he stated, nervously, after seeing the braided-rope cot held upon the shoulders of the two men.<br />
"Doctor, we came all the way from Konarha. We walked all night," pleaded Sayyed. "He is badly wounded." He pointed to the braided-rope cot.<br />
In a voice torn between feelings of anger and compassion, he hurriedly swung open the gate, saying, "All right. Quickly!" He motioned. <br />
They carried the braided-rope cot into the dirt yard of the house, as Qasim immediately closed the gate, after looking with big worried greenish brown eyes up and down the empty road.<br />
"I told you never to fetch any one to my house. I'll be in deep trouble," Qasim whispered to Sayyed, as he led them into the dark kitchen.<br />
"I also told them. But we didn't have any choice."<br />
In the kitchen, Qasim lit the lamp on the high mud oven, which had once been whitewashed, but now the coloring had flaked off, leaving a pattern looking incredibly like the huge formation of a world map. <br />
Sayyed walked over to the corner of the kitchen. He bent down, put his forearm into a clay pot, and brought out a small wrapped bundle in his hand. He unwrapped it on the lower table and the medical tools shone in the light of the lantern held in the hand of a Mujahideen (Afghan insurgent) standing near the wounded man. <br />
The doctor now removed the bed-cloth from the braided-rope cot. Three Kalashnikov rifles (AK-47) and one old-fashioned rifle laybeside the wounded man, two on each side, on the braided-rope cot. The strap of the old 1920's style rifle was wrapped with greenflowered cloth and the stock wrapped with firm green vinyl. <br />
Qasim opened the wounded man's eye and then felt for a pulse. Then said, in a low voice, as he raised his body up: "He is dead."<br />
The four men stood silently. <br />
"What're we going to do?" the man with the dark mustache asked, breaking the silence, wiping the sweat on his forehead withthe back of his hand.<br />
"We'll take him to my friend's house. We can keep him there until nightfall and then we'll carry him back," said Sayyed, after looking at his SEIKO watch. A jagged piece of the broken crystal was missing and the original watchband had been replaced with the same green flowered cloth that wrapped the strap of the rifle.<br />
In desperation, after re-covering the body with the bed cloth, they picked up the braided-rope cot; quickly carrying it out of the kitchen, while Qasim stood rewrapping his medical tools.<br />
<br />
<br />
2<br />
<br />
While Qasim was treating one of the out-patients in the Public Health Department in Kama on a cloudy morning in mid-November in 1978, an orderly, who had been cleaning the hallway, pushed his head into the examination room, holding the mop in his hand and said: "Doctor, there is a call for you."<br />
"Thanks."<br />
Qasim, hung the stethoscope on his neck, went out of the room, crossing the hallway, where several patients were sitting and leaning against the walls, and went into the other examination room.<br />
In the room, Qasim saw his colleague, Dr. Makata Latif, whose large body was deeply sunk into the sagging sofa. Leaning back, he stared at the ceiling aimlessly, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He appeared to be thinking very deeply. He seemed not to notice Qasim when he entered. There must have been a tough conversation between Dr. Makata Latif and Captain Ahmadali, Qasim thought. Ahmadali was the acting Colonel and commander of the 5th regiment, as well as the military governor of the sub-provence in Nangarhar Province.<br />
"Excuse me," said Makata Latif, as he quickly sat up from the sofa. He noticed Qasim walk toward the telephone, with its receiver laying next to it, on the tea table in front of him. "It's the commander for you," he indicated with a tilt of his head toward the telephone.<br />
Qasim cautiously picked up the receiver. "Hello, Dr. Qasim speaking." Makata Latif was looking up intensely at Qasim. "Isn't Dr. Mazdak working in the military hospital?" asked Qasim quizzically. "I see. But I'm very busy myself and I couldn't leave Dr. Makata Latif here alone to handle all of the cases." <br />
Qasim wanted to argue with the Captain, but listened reluctantly as his face grew dark, making many fine wrinkles on his nose and deep wrinkles between his eyebrows. "Yes. I'll come immediately," angrily hanging up the phone.<br />
"What was it?" Makata Latif asked Qasim, worriedly.<br />
"The commander's son is awfully sick so he wants me to come right away to see him."<br />
"That's all?" said Makata Latif in disbelief. "What about Dr. Mazdak?"<br />
"He's involved with another project. What really eats away at my heart is that I have to take care of the commander's son while my own boy suffers at home," Qasim said feebly.<br />
Earlier that morning, the sky was still dark when he walked into his little son's room. He put the back of his hand against his son's forehead. The boy's skin was very hot. He bent over and whispered to his son: "I'll be back early this evening to take you to children's hospital in Jalalabad." He hugged his son tenderly, hoping the child would survive the day. If Qasim could have, he would have left yesterday, but since the Communist government takeover, no one, not even doctors, could move freely without permission. As he walked back to his room, he looked at his wife sleeping peacefully. He hardly ever saw her when she was awake.<br />
Dr. Makata Latif stood up and put his arm around Qasim. "Don't worry. I'll take care of things while you're gone. And when you come back, I'll stay so you can take your son to Jalalabad."<br />
"You're a true friend."<br />
Qasim walked out of the room and saw an orderly and a nurse walk abruptly away from their posture of standing-silently in the door way of the room in the hallway. Dr.Qasim sensed that something definitely was wrong, but he wasn't sure what.<br />
He went into his room, quickly took off his gown, put on his dark single-breasted blazer over his long sleeved shirt, threw the medical examination instruments into his bag, and walked out of the clinic holding the bag in his hand.<br />
"Let's go!" Qasim said to the young driver who stood beside the hospital jeep. He wore a faded pin striped vest over his traditional garment. He was tall and thin. Another young man,<br />
in chador, apple-pie-hat, and sandals, was characteristically sitting in a fetal position on the ground, holding his old Papashuh rifle with its large drum magazine across his legs. The strap of the rifle dropped down in between his legs. He was facing the clinic with his back toward the gate. He had a long chin and a frightfully long, thick mustache to show his allegiance to the People (Khalki)'s Democratic Party of Afghanistan, the Communist party. <br />
The Khalki-mustached man got into the jeep and sat in the back seat. Qasim got into the jeep and sat in the front seat. <br />
As they were driving out of the hospital grounds, Qasim could feel the nervous tension emanating from the stares of the several nurses and orderlies, standing quietly and motionlessly on the steps of the hospital watching them leave. Since the Communists took over the government, many civilians lived in fear that their neighbors and members of their family had been taken away or would be taken away at any moment. <br />
"Hurry up! Time is a luxury we can't waste!" Qasim said vexedly to the driver.<br />
The driver increased the speed.<br />
<br />
Purchase the entire book in paper by clicking the "Buy Now" button below.<br />
<br />
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_s-xclick"><br />
<input type="hidden" name="encrypted" value="-----BEGIN PKCS7-----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-----END PKCS7-----
"><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/JP/i/btn/btn_buynowCC_LG.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!"><br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"><br />
</form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-22101849967381011712010-09-09T17:42:00.009+02:002010-12-05T12:53:32.292+01:00Combat Over TragedyCopyright © by Hideo Asano 2010<br />
<br />
<br />
This book is a pure fiction and ’I’ is a fictional character in this book. Readers, I warn you. This book is not for leisure but for passion to read. You may need an extinguisher while reading. Your hands might be burnt unless you have sacred hands to hold this book.<br />
-- Hideo Asano<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The discipline of suffering, of great suffering…it is this discipline alone that has created every elevation of mankind hitherto… In man, creature and creator are united: in man there is matter, fragment, excess, clay, mud, madness, chaos; but in man there is also creator, sculptor, the hardness of the hammer…do you understand this antithesis? And that your pity is for the “creature in man,” for that which has to be formed, broken, forged, torn, burned, annealed, refined—that which has to suffer and should suffer?<br />
<br />
It will come, one day, that hour that will envelope you in a golden cloud where there is no pain: where the soul has the enjoyment of its own weariness and, happy in a patient game with its own patience, is like the waves of a lake which, reflecting the colors of an evening sky on a quiet summer’s day, lap and lap against the bank and then are still again—without end, without aim, without satiation, without desire.<br />
-- F. Nietzsche<br />
<br />
<br />
1<br />
<br />
I am a depraved man. I am a spiteful man. I am not worthy to live. I am unpleasantly residing in underground as a dejected being. Once in a while, I instinctively tried to cheer myself but in vain. I gave up for doing it for a long time and let myself gloomier to harm my stomach, which I didn’t care.<br />
For a sure thing is that I don’t desire anything on earth. I don’t put any value on worldly things but in antitheses. I am taking punishment of delightful solitude rebelliously but I have forty untouchable brains which only my treasures on earth. They are like old dry wine and bitter tea. They are the true enemies of wisdom demolishers. Tasteless food is real food for those who care. Sweet tea could ruin my day. Too many brains spoil broth. I take flights more or less eternally to the same brains, which faithfully guard my soul. Untouchable brains and tunes could change the color of my blood. Can you live without food? I eat to live, not live to eat, but to live well. I know how to choose my food. Oh, before to go further, I have to mention this that I have never been fight for happiness. I rather live tragically. I scare to sleep in a feather bed and well fed up to serve someone else that is unthinkable. I rather sleep on straw to feel the freedom to laugh alone unable to make successful jokes with other people. You have to have joyful belly laughter unable to survive without it and therefore alone for it in the world of heterodoxy. <br />
I am eating well to keep up my strength. I am enjoying sophisticated cuisine. I am eating and drinking melodically while enjoying the air of symphonic atmosphere, which orchestrated from deep down earth. I am very choosy eater. I carefully choose food what I like to eat. If I don’t have food what I like to eat I am willing to go for hunger even beyond forty days. With empty stomach you have to act as if you have just enjoyed a New York steak since you know that people wouldn’t believe that you have gone through hunger, which is worth to live with. The glorious thing on earth is we must go hunger all the time.<br />
Hunger can’t kill you. Poverty can’t kill you. Poverty of wits makes you melancholic. But boredom is silent killer. Monstrous tediousness can silently kill you. In poverty, man still can live with dignity for the sake of his dazzling soul. <br />
You might want to know the situation of the underground where I am occupying. Of course, the room is small and always pitch-dark and melancholy so you had to turn the light on even during the day but economical. Actually my room is very bright. Forty lights shine my room constantly. In fact, I rather like a murky place to focus on things to think about or to read than a bright place. The room was sheer empty. There was no table and no chair. I consider such a room is a spiritually dead room, which is opposite of van Gogh’s room, which was even decorated with his own paintings. But recently I had picked them up, one at a time from a garbage heap, at night. All what I needed was a small table and a chair to sit down and to burn the night oil after everybody sold out---food, gold and soul---in the market.<br />
Underground is where you could at least find tranquility. I even hardly found serenity in a park usually packed with party people where I used take a philosophical walk. The air of the park was usually dominated by the excessively loud music during the weekend. I used to lodging in the open air of the park for many nights in winter in my sleeping bag as peacefully as on a bed of roses. I had many delightful bright winter mornings in this park when I heard cheerful musical screams of artless preschool kids playing about me. The bright smiles of innocent kids were allowed me to feel hope of our future. The astonishing moment was when I opened my eyes the white world with snow was waited for me before my eyes and the world was deadly calm with no souls about but only birds on the canopy of a pine tree greeted me with its songs. But normally as the sun rose high, the air of the park invaded again with unpleasant loud music. Where could you find a serene place if there was not a tranquil spot in a park where you suppose to sit to think or to read or to have a philosophical walk? Fly to underground. Untouchable coconut water that makes the sun powerless blocks all sorts of impurity. When you go down deeper you would feel more profitable. Laughable miserable one must hide in underground to live well and hide well all for his independent mind--his stubborn willpower--running against all the glorious and superior things such as prosperity, honor, fame, health…and so on and so forth. Praise monotonous tediousness! People are not talking, but mimicking. I raise my glass mixed with a drop of my tear for their welfare for all the gorgeous and superior. How can anyone attack me? I am speaking in a civilized manner as a bad citizen.<br />
I am defending for my own benefit. I am willing to pay any high price or wherever it might lead me to defend my sovereignty what I only want to maintain. There is no higher price to pay for than that. Hide so well so neither one can smell of me nor bombs can reach me. I am not saying that underground is the most pleasant place to be residing but not bad at all for a particular person who is… <br />
<br />
You can buy the rest of the book as a physical copy by clicking the "buy now" button below. (€12 + €3 shipping)<br />
<br />
<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_s-xclick"><br />
<input type="hidden" name="encrypted" value="-----BEGIN PKCS7-----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-----END PKCS7-----
"><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/JP/i/btn/btn_buynowCC_LG.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!"><br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"></form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-23985916862697704272010-06-17T05:14:00.002+02:002010-06-17T05:23:43.802+02:00NOTICE:Dear Readers,<br /> Please do not purchase the titles of my books, An American Breakfast, Timber Carriers of Afghanistan and Albatross and the Sea, which printed by Authorhouse (print and demand). Authorhouse failed for the payment of royalties of my books. This notice remains until the publisher, Authorhouse, respectfully proofs that they are not illegally selling my books.<br />Thank you for your cooperation.<br />Hideo Asano, writerhideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-85605214932983874712009-01-30T05:11:00.001+01:002009-01-30T05:11:56.607+01:00The Rejected Stonehideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-22902611154004251072008-09-08T14:52:00.004+02:002009-12-27T16:31:38.418+01:00Thunder of the MountainThunder of the Mountain is also available. Please visit www.hideoasano.com for the three chapters of the book. <br />20 Euro plushideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-45754720107541153432008-09-08T09:04:00.010+02:002008-09-08T12:23:16.290+02:00The Sun Behind the Clouds-Collection of short stories<strong><strong>Mountain Night</strong></strong><br /><br />It was a cold, dark Friday night in March as I drove down the country road. I stopped my car in front of a brightly lit 24-hour gas station that had a small convenience store next to it. I went up, bought some food for the next day, filled up the tank, and continued on my way.<br />On the dark mountain road, through the black lattice of the thick and thin branches overhead, you could see the sparkling stars against the dark sky. In the headlights, I saw many jackrabbits sprinting away into the darkness.<br />When I reached my destination, I saw a cluster of buildings at a fork in the road: a tavern, a small old wooden post office with a sign on the roof that read MOUNTAIN CENTER POST OFFICE and a general store. A sign stood alongside the road: “Mountain Center, Elevation 4,400 feet”. It was very quiet and cold.<br />Further down, I found a motel, in the dark forest, by the mountain road, but it was already closed. It was past midnight, so I had to try to sleep in my car in a campground. I huddled in the back seat, covering my body with a thick, warm plaid blanket, but I was too chilled to sleep. I needed something warm in my stomach to help me sleep, so I drove back to the tavern. Perched on a high, jagged cliff, it was surrounded by cars and pickups. A large neon sign of a white champagne glass blinked on t he rooftop, providing a sharp contrast to the dark sky. Outside it was quiet, but as I opened the wooden door, the tavern exploded with noise, light and smokes. About twenty people were cheerfully dancing to a band playing heavy rock music and another dozen were found at the bar, sitting on high barstools or leaning against it, clapping to the loud music and drinking beer.<br />“May I have a coffee?” I said to the heavyset bartender.<br />“We don’t serve coffee this late,” he said. Then he reconsidered. “All right. I’ll make some just for you.”<br />I sat at a small wooden table close to the band and the dancers. I wondered where they came from and where they all could go.<br />I noticed a girl with brown hair. Her long flowing locks shone in the light like a reflecting river, dancing joyfully by herself. She moved around smoothly with long strides among the other dancers without touching them. I had never seen anyone so energetic. All of a sudden, the bartender was by my side with a mug of coffee and a stainless creamer in his hands.<br />I paid, tipped and thanked him. He returned to the bar. When the music ended, the people, including my flamenco girl, crowded around him while a few of them wandered to their table, smiling beneath the dim lights. He handed out bottles of beer, collected bills and slapped change on the wet bar. It gave me a pleasant feeling to watch this entire simple scene unfold before me. I didn’t see anyone else drinking coffee. They were all swigging beer of various brands.<br />When the band began playing again, most of the patrons hurried back to the dance floor. The brown-haired girl began hitting her heels hard on the wooden floor rhythmically and excitedly, weaving in between the other dancers.<br />Finally, after I had finished my coffee, I stood up and went to the bar for a bottle of beer in an effort to share their exhilaration. I sat on a stool. The bartender was still putting glasses on the bar and laughing with the customers. He often went to the register, punched the keys, and I heard the tinkling sound of coins. I beckoned with my index finger and ordered a beer.<br />At the bar, I talked to a shaggy bearded man who sat beside me. His name was Michael. I found out from him that the population of the Mountain Center was just over 300. We didn’t, or rather couldn’t, talk much more because the noise of heels hitting against the wooden floor increased, making it only possible to drink and watch the dancers. <br />When she got off the dance floor, she sat beside me and ordered a beer. I smiled at her. She told me her name, and I told her mine.<br />“Would you like to dance?” asked Pat, the dancer.<br />“Sure,” I accepted.<br />As we danced, we kept smiling at each other. She hummed to the music, one hand on my arm, the other on my back. I recalled the wonderful times when I had been in love, and how fine it would be again. We were the only couple dancing close together. Feeling pleasantly warm and thirsty from our dance, we returned to our beer.<br />A while later, a young man walked up to Pat and asked her to dance. She accepted. Lost love---I was shattered. I realized I was going to have to hold off falling in love until I find the right girl.<br />As closing time neared, the dancing became wilder. I spoke to more people. Michael invited me to spend the night in his trailer in the mountains, and when closing time came, I shook many hands goodbye.<br />In my car, I followed Michael’s vehicle, which had three of his friends inside. Not far from the tavern we turned left onto a dirt road between tall pine trees and stopped in a parking space. We all got out of the cars. With help from Michael’s flashlight, we walked up a winding dirt path until it ended at a small trailer against the dark mountain. A small window shone with an orange light and gave me a warm feeling. It was quiet and cold.<br />This small home had one large long room. A map of Mt. San Jacinto National Forest was tacked by pushpins on the wall up near a lamp. It was cold. Together, my host and I carried in chopped pinewood that made the trailer smell like winter incense. Michael built a fire in the potbellied stove and he put some more firewood to make the flame hotter. He was a very quiet man. His smiles took the place of words.<br />He sat down on the sofa with his guitar and set his fingers on the frets. He watched the ceiling for a moment, before he made music. One of his friends sat on the carpeted floor and played another guitar to the accompaniment of his strumming. Another, who also sat on the floor, joined them, playing on a Jew’s harp, which produced a soft “pinging” sound; the trailer sounded both happy and sad, like it had captured the feeling of the forest. The one who played the Jew’s harp stopped ever so often to drink tequila from the mouth of a bottle. He licked salt from his fist between his index finger and thumb before each swig. He passed the bottle to me and I put salt on my fist and I drank like he did. It made my stomach warm.<br />Michael stopped playing his guitar. He smiled. Michael seemed very happy with his music and also very happy living in the forest. He sprinkled the salt on my fist, and I drank it from the mouth of the bottle.<br />“Do you have any plans for tomorrow” I asked Michael.<br />“Not particularly,” he replied, after drinking. “How about you?”<br />“I would like to stay here and enjoy the nature, do a spot of fishing. But, I must go home.”<br />When I had enough tequila, I thought about the brown-haired girl in the bar. It suddenly hit me that the purpose of this night’s trip was to show me the connections between the world and me, and to prove that by plunging into life, I would understand it better. I mused over much philosophical thoughts until we had the bottom of the tequila bottle faced right up to the ceiling.<br />My companions, lying down in sleeping bags, were steeped also in silent thoughts and tequila. I lay down also.<br />“No, no. You’re our guest. You sleep on the sofa,” Michael insisted. It was a soiled old sofa, but to me it was beautiful. Michael covered me with a sheepskin coat and then, happy as a lark and as well provided for, I went to sleep.<br />A few hours later the sound of birds and the bright ray of sunlight awakened me.<br />After writing a brief thank-you note to my new friends, I slipped into the piney, earth-smelling morning, ready for the adventures of a new day.<br />As I drove away, I wondered how long it would be before the music of a new day would begin to play, or, if I might ever return for another conversation---or dance---with Pat.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>There Is No Green Pasture</strong><br /><br />The train rumbled across the New Zealand countryside. It seemed almost a crime that noise should be allowed to disturb something so beautiful. Startled sheep bounded away from the track. The sheep were grazing in the smoothness of green sea.<br />“Aren’t they in the arms of shepherd?” I said to a man who sat in front of me.<br />“The pastures in New Zealand are green all year around,” he said proudly.<br />“It’s opposite of Australia.”<br />“The woollen animals aren’t sticking out of the grazing over there.”<br />“I’ve heard that in Australia, once every three years, they have terrible droughts.”<br />“Do you know the name of New Zealand’s largest city?”<br /> “Auckland.”<br />“No, Sydney. Because many young New Zealanders go to Sydney for better opportunities.”<br />“I know what you mean. I met many young Kiwis in Sydney working there.”<br />“And many of them never come back,” he said sadly.<br />I gestured at the beautiful countryside that seemed to go on endlessly. “How could they leave this wonderful country?”<br />“Beautiful scenery doesn’t pay for food or cloths or housing. Australia is where the good money and the good jobs are.”<br />“Then why are you here in New Zealand?”<br />“I did work there for many years. But I came back. I shouldn’t have come back. Would you return to lower wages and fewer opportunities?”<br />“A charming young waitress, who served my dinner one night in Christchurch, had two jobs, one during day and one at night, earning money for a trip to Europe next spring. So I said jokingly to her, ‘You’re beautiful. Why don’t you get a rich man?’ And she replied, ‘Well, there ain’t many rich men in New Zealand.’”<br />“It’s very hard to rich in New Zealand unless you win the lottery. You see I have two tickets,” he pulled them out from his inside pocket. “I wish I could return to Sydney to work to get rich. But it’s too late now. I have a wife, five children, two ponies, two dogs and twenty-three cats.”<br />“I guess you’re already a rich man. I have none of those,” I smiled. <br />“You’re the lucky man. Because you’re still single. You can go wherever you want to and whenever you want.”<br />“You’re a lucky man living in a beautiful country. At least, you can have a simple and good life. You can’t buy fresh air.”<br />“I am paying for it in other ways.”<br />It must be terrible, I thought to myself, to be doing what you wanted, be where you wanted to be doing it, and still not be completely happy.<br />We sat in silence until the next stop at K Station. As the train slowly screeched to a halt we shook hands and said goodbye to each other. The man departed.<br />Climbing down from the car, I breathed deeply the pure air and walked toward the station restaurant where many passengers were heading. In the shaded area of the platform, two railroad workers in their uniforms were chattering; one was leaning against the side of the opened doorway of the goods wagon, a wet cigarette clinging to the corner of his lower lip while rolling another cigarette; the other one was standing with his hands resting on his hips.<br />In the restaurant, a large crowd already swarmed around the busy counter, ordering their food and drink: weak milky tea and coffee, a variety of sandwiches and lots of hot meat pies. Behind the counter, three women, two young and one old, were hard at work. It probably was the busiest hour of the day, I thought.<br />The big windows looked out to the blue sky and sea. Many oil paintings, depicting snow-capped mountains of New Zealand, hung on the stark white walls.<br />While many of the passengers were sitting at the tables enjoying their meals and drinks, I raced outside with my cheese and onion sandwich and a small carton of apple juice.<br />At the end of the long platform, I saw an engineer who was sitting in the back of the driver’s cab talking to an unseen companion beside him. The sleeve of his blue shirt was rolled up above his left elbow, which was resting on the still. Turning my back against the hulking yellow engine, I walked down the baking hot asphalt surface of the parking lot behind the station. The sparkling blue ocean across the sand soothed me.<br />At the edge of the parking lot, I sat on the tall early summer grass on a rocky bank, resting my feet on the two large smooth-surfaced, grayish-black oval rocks leaning out to the sea as I ate. Other rocks along the bank were shining in the sun. Apart from the relentless hissing of the white foamy waves, it was very quiet, as if the world was dead. In the cool breeze, the blades of young grass brushed against one another.<br />On the breakwater, far off to the right, cray-fishing boats were gently bobbing up and down near the small fishing village perched in the hills. A brown horse stood as motionless as its surroundings; its flanks were shining like oil in the sunlight. <br />Suddenly, loud speakers announced that it was time to board. I stood up. Walking toward the train, I saw a tall, young man taking photographs with a 35mm camera. A camera bag, jammed with other cameras and camera equipment, was on the ground near him.<br />“Did you take many good pictures?” I asked.<br />“Oh, yes.”<br />“Where are you from?”<br />“Switzerland.”<br />“Switzerland is as beautiful as New Zealand.”<br />“But we don’t have sea.”<br />The train started off with a thunder and jerk as we all settled into the cars.<br /><br /><br /><strong><br />Rebel’s Room</strong><br /><br />We all sat on the carpeted floor as a single light bulb shone brightly upon all our faces. The room was filled with many men and young boys. They were in their traditional clothes. The men wore brown apple pie hats. The young boys had shaved heads. Most of them were staying in this second-floor room of a concrete apartment in a dusty ancient town of Pakistan. They were resting from their long and ferocious fighting in Afghanistan and some were receiving medical treatment for their wounds. In the hallway, outside the open door, several young girls, wearing colorful peasant clothing smiled broadly, as they looked into the room. They didn’t dare come in.<br />The room had no furniture. The only display, or decoration, was a large board of a wall-mounted collection of ammunition samples: bullets, steel fragments of shell casing, peculiar assortments of jagged metal and a piece of very thick glass from the window of a soviet jet bomber. They were proudly displayed like the trophies of a great sportsman.<br />A large old-fashioned fan was circulating slowly on the ceiling, fighting a losing battle against the heavy heat. Outside, it was almost dark. Through the window, you could hear the sounds of the horses’ hooves pulling the carriages at trot.<br />“My brother’s son’s leg cut by German doctor here in Peshawar. In this city there are two or three legs cutting everyday. Even more arms cutting up. I also lost many relatives and friends,” Jawad spoke. He was the leader of a small band of mujahideen. He had been fighting the Soviets for more than six years, since the day the Soviet Union invaded his country. Both he and his two brothers were proud to be rebels fighting against the Russians; they were also inordinately proud to be the grandsons of a man who spent his entire life fighting the English, who likewise had grand designs of conquest on Afghanistan in another era. <br />“Is there any way to keep the Russian prisoners alive instead of executing them?” I asked through my interpreter.<br />“We have no choice,” said Jawad. “One day we shot down a helicopter gunship. Pilot escaped with his parachute. We gave him to Pakistani government. But two weeks later, they gave him back to Soviet Union.”<br />“Pakistani government scared to make the Russian government angry. So they returned him,” added Raz, showing his badly stained teeth as he spoke.<br />“We are also busy all the time and no way to watch prisoners. So only way is to kill them,” said Jawad.<br />“We don’t like kill people, but the Russians kill us,” explained Raz.<br />“Last summer we shot down one more helicopter gunship and two Russians pilots survived with their parachutes. One woman and one man. When they come down slowly into village we wait with knife, sword, sickle and stone. My men finished them like goats,” Jawad’s lips curled slightly into his cheeks, in what seemed like the beginning of a smile. <br />“Russians are scared. They cry and scream because they don’t believe in Allah. If you don’t believe in Allah dying is horrible,” Raz showed his bad teeth.<br />“And you,” I asked, “are not afraid to die?”<br />“No, I am not scare to die. It is respect to die for cause. We enter heaven when we die.”<br />“Do you think you’re going to win this war?”<br />“Oh, yes,” replied Jawad. “We fight until we win or be killed to go to heaven. You can win if you have heart. No matter how strong your enemy is. If you are scared, you will never win. No matter how good your training is.”<br />“That sounds very fundamentalist-----and dreamers,” said I.<br />“We are dreamers. We cannot be slaves.”<br />“No,” said I. “I understand that.”<br />Jawd put his fist down so as to emphasize his feelings more energetically. “It is better to be lion for one day than chicken for thousand years.”<br />“We love freedom,” said Raz, showing his teeth.<br />“And Allah,” added Jawad. Raz nodded. “I don’t know politics. I’m only fighting to kill our enemies.” He smiled.<br />Just then the light bulb spluttered and went dead. The room was thrown into darkness.<br />Jawad broke off and said something to someone in a strange-sounding language, presumably to get the light.<br />He continued in the darkness, “If you are not Afghan, it is very difficult to fight in our mountains. Sometimes the snow up to our necks in winter. That’s why Russians sure lose.” <br />“I know that the Russians are not used to fight in rugged mountains,” I responded.<br />“A Russian prisoner told me that the Russian soldiers are very happy with snow because it remind them their homeland,” said the leader.<br />A young boy came in holding a brightly shining kerosene lamp. His face was brightened in the light. <br />The boy seated himself beside me. The lamp heated me.<br />“Do you miss your country?” I asked the boy, who was listening attentively.<br />“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” the boy replied. He smiled, looking right at me.<br />“He want to fight,” said the leader.<br />“How old is he?” I asked.<br />“Twelve.”<br />“You would let him fight at his age?”<br />“Next year.” Then Jawad said something to another boy.<br />The boy quickly went out of the room. He returned holding a small box and handed it to Jawad who opened it near the bright lantern. He showed me many black and white and faded color photos that were taken inside Afghanistan.<br />“This is thirteen.” He pointed to a boy who was holding a Kalashnikov standing among the rebels in a photo. “He is sixty-five years old.” He pointed to one in the same photo.<br />The whole room suddenly brightened as the power returned.<br /><br /><br /><br />The Sun Behind the Clouds has 27 short stories<br /><br />A copy of this book is available at 20.00 EURO (3 EURO shipping).<br /><br />As soon as payment is made through PayPal, the item will be shipped to you, anywhere around the world.<br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input value="_xclick" name="cmd" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="hideoasano@hotmail.com" name="business" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="The Sun Behind the Clouds" name="item_name" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="20.00" name="amount" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="3.00" name="shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="0" name="no_shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="1" name="no_note" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="EUR" name="currency_code" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="JP" name="lc" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="PP-BuyNowBF" name="bn" type="hidden"/><br /><input border="0" alt="paypal" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynow_SM.gif" name="submit" type="image"/><br /><img border="0" alt="" width="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" height="1"/><br /></form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-24163697925133883592008-09-06T18:34:00.020+02:002009-01-30T09:45:00.646+01:00The Rejected Stone - Mystique of the Ancient History of JapanThe Rejected Stone - Mystique of the Ancient History of Japan (Sample Chapters 1-2)<br /> <br />Historical Background of Paekche Kingdom<br /><br />The Puyo tribe of Manchuria founded the Koguryo Kingdom as one of the kingdoms of Kaya, Koguryo, Paekche, Shilla and Lolang in the Korean Peninsula. The Koguryo was situated in the northern part of the peninsula stretching across Manchuria, the Lolang the northeast, the Packche in the southwest, the Shilla the southeast and the Kaya in the south.<br />Each of the five kingdoms developed their own culture and military power, while they were fiercely fighting against each other to expand their territories. Periodically the five kingdoms allied with each other to maintain their own dynasties. Each of the kingdoms developed their own arts and architecture after extensively remodeling Chinese culture. As the predominant religion, Buddhism heavily influenced their art. The rulers of each kingdom used Buddhism as an effective tool for unifying the people. <br />The Lolang, the smallest kingdom, collapsed in 313AD. The Paekche took half of the Kaya near the southeastern of the Korean Peninsula in 512AD and the Shilla conquered the Kaya in 562AD. Then the Paekche conquered the Kaya in 642AD.<br />Since then the Koguryo, the Shilla and the Paekche remained as the principal kingdoms of the Korean Peninsula.<br />The Paekche had the most advanced culture among the three kingdoms. It had excellent architecture, astronomy, art and political structure. Paekche’s art was distinctive, refined and sophisticated. Roughly the whole Paekche culture was like a gigantic artisans’ workshop, with thriving architecture, sculptures, paintings and metal works being produced. Simplicity in art is distinctively the Paekche style. The arts of the Paekche are immortalized in the smiling images of Buddha, murals, architectures and the round end of eave tiles, which had simple designs of lotus flowers. <br />The Paekche also heavily influenced China and Japan, both culturally and politically, and played a leading role in international trade with the various southern Chinese states, and with Japan. Entire southern parts of China and Japan existed as the territories of the Paekche and were a maritime empire, similar to the influential Roman Empire and the Greek city-state, Athens. The Paekche even provided advanced culture to its rival kingdom, Shilla. <br />Basically the Koguryo and the Paekche have similar cultures. The Paekche broke out from the Koguryo. This is shown through the murals of tombs. The founder of the Paekche, King Onjo, is the son of King Tongmyung, the founder of the Koguryo.<br />In 660 AD, the Paekche fell to the allied troops of Shilla and Tang. The Shilla Kingdom conquered the Koguryo and united the peninsula in 668 AD.<br />Although the Paekche lost its power in the Korean Peninsula, where it was founded, its civilization was not completely extinguished. <br />In fact, the civilization of the Paekche also sprang from Asuka in the Nara Prefecture, Japan, from the late 4th century. The Paekche introduced Buddhism into Japan in the end of 4th century. <br />As the result, Asuka, the ancient capital of Japan, became another artisans’ workshop based on Buddhism. The civilization of the Paekche gradually took deep root in Asuka and spread to the whole of Japan. You could see the assimilation of the Paekche civilization in the distinctive style of Buddhist temples, gardens, wooden statues of Buddha, murals and many other crafts. Even today, Asuka village remains as an archeological site where many cultural properties were buried.<br />Unable to separate the Paekche Kingdom and Japan to understand the Paekche culture as a whole is like you can’t omit even one voice out of alto, tenor, or soprano, and bass for a motet.<br /><br />Part 1: Destroyed but not Defeated<br /><br />1<br />He was still looking at it. He was looking at it again. He was simply looking at it. He viewed it from many different angles. People who saw him might have thought that he was an insane. Indeed, he was obsessed about something. He was looking at it like one looking at a sculpture in an art museum or in a park. He was looking at it with his heart pounding.<br />It was not a mysterious object he was looking at. It was a religious monument. It was an ancient monument. It was a five-story granite pagoda. It was not creamy-white granite but pure nothing added with different materials. It had the color of the plumpness and sleek curves of plain coarse and dark gray Paekche earthenware displayed in antique shops or museums. The pagoda had both a timelessness and beauty standing in the center of a ruined Buddhist temple located in the center of Puyo as the last capital of Paekche Kingdom. <br /><br />He, Junichi Takamuku, was looking at it across the flatness of the yellowish-brown earth. The earth rectangular-shaped about the size of a soccer field was flat clean and hard, but not frozen any more, surrounded by gentle hills covered with red pines. The smooth clean earth made the standing-figure look, in a distance, small and insignificant. But it was huge, strong and ancient, which made him insignificant standing by it. It stands firm and proud. It stands firmly on the broad stable ground stone its foundation. Several places of the bottom surfaces of ground stones were chipped slightly to fit to the natural contours of the earth. The preservation of plain little stones in their original positions portends out that the natural environment has priority over the artificial environment. It looked mysterious, sophisticated and unique. It was simple, humble, yet, graceful. It was a combination of art, religion and algebra.<br />He now slowly walked up toward the pagoda. Then he looked up. Facing it, he felt greatness and hugeness and warmth of the pagoda. Each surface of the stone was not mirror-smooth but rather coarse. He walked slowly around and gazed at it up and down, down and up, over and over again, from many different angles. There were several huge-spaces on which you could slide your spread-out hand between the joints of the weathered stones. You could feel a sense of artistic value from the imperfections and, yet, you could see proportional perfection of the pagoda like a perfect circle of the sun when you never consider the vertical jets of gas, which it produces. <br />He felt impelled to circle around it many times, like a little boy on a merry-go-round, as he looked up at the body of it closely and carefully. He looked at it up and down on one side, then the other and the other thoroughly. He could almost feel the coarse yet smooth feeling of its surfaces. Underneath the eaves of its five-tiered roofs were shadowed as he looked up at against the gray sky of late winter that reminded him of the identical eaves of five-tiered tiled roofs of the wooden pagodas in Japan.<br />The edge of a roof chipped off partially. It made the edge of the roof thinner. Did bullets do that? He looked up at the extremely wide spaces between the two surfaces of the stones. Did the vibration of galloping horses widen the spaces between the two surfaces of stones, if not, was it deliberate? Or did the tanks do that? Or did time do that?<br /><br />2<br />Strangely he had an affinity with the strangely shaped chunks of cold granite that cut out of the mountain. But he felt it was warm. The hard granite looked so soft that it would urge you to walk up and touch it gently like you would stroke a cat. He really loved to look up at it. Strangely the more he looked up at it, the more he loved to look up at it, like being magnetized by a great painting. It looked meek, strong and deep. <br />He didn’t care about things, which give you, no strong feeling, but, the sense of superficial beauty, such as clean and sharp photographs or fine paintings of flowers, mountains or lakes, for which no inspiration required, unless you force yourself to love it. Because there is only skill involved in facile beauty but not soul. What he cared for were photographs or paintings or sculptures that were rather dull, hard to understand, at one look. He cared about art made with passion rather than smooth sailing of skill. He had no appreciation for those sweet easy works done under the name of commercialism for the eyes, but not for the hearts of people.<br />The pagoda looked like a gigantic man whose tatters and bruised skin couldn’t hide his dignity. It showed harsh reality as the tragic symbol of a defeated kingdom. <br />He couldn't block his ears from the echoes of screaming of 3,000 young Paekche ladies who jumped right into the Paengma River from the steep cliff of Puso Mountain in Puyo, rather than be captured by the invading troops. Today people call the cliff, from where those young women plunged, Nakwha-arm, as a symbol of noble allegiance Paekche ladies. The name means flowers falling in the wind.<br /><br />Then he heard the hissing sound the volleys of arrows made, thuds of galloping, and crashing sounds of swords in Hwangsanbul, a battlefield, near Puyo. Commander Kyebeck of Paekche fought bravely with his troop of only 5,000 soldiers against 50,000 soldiers of the Shilla, while 100,000 soldiers of Tang crossing the Paengma River, discoloring the earth with rushing out of hot blood. He took the life of his beloved family, not wanting them to be enslaved by the enemies, before he faced the battlefield. Although he had the heart of a lion, he obviously knew that he would be defeated by the outnumbering enemy troops. Amazingly, in the first three battles, his troop was victorious against the might hordes but alas perished in the fourth battle. Even in the midst of bitter rivalry and adversity, honor, nobility and compassion prevailed. Commander Kyebeck sent a captive underage boy back to his troops. What a clean good fight, Jimocjo thought. In memory of his valor, mercy and loyalty stands an imposing bronze-statue centrally placed in Puyo, where many cultural properties were buried as an important archeological site, the last capital of the defeated kingdom.<br />Why didn’t Koguryo help Paekche? Why didn’t Koguryo do anything for Paekche? Why didn’t Koguryo help Paekche to defeat the strong allied troop of Shilla and Tang? Did Koguryo want Paekche to collapse? If so, how would it benefit Koguryo? He never thought of this before. Do you think, simply, Koguryo was scared of Tang? Wouldn’t it have been well-balanced battle if Koguryo helped Paekche?<br /><br />A copy of this book is available at 20.00 EURO (3 EURO shipping).<br /><br />As soon as payment is made through PayPal, the item will be shipped to you, anywhere around the world.<br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input value="_xclick" name="cmd" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="hideoasano@hotmail.com" name="business" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="The Rejected Stone - Mystique of the Ancient History of Japan" name="item_name" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="20.00" name="amount" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="3.00" name="shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="0" name="no_shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="1" name="no_note" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="EUR" name="currency_code" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="JP" name="lc" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="PP-BuyNowBF" name="bn" type="hidden"/><br /><input border="0" alt="paypal" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynow_SM.gif" name="submit" type="image"/><br /><img border="0" alt="" width="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" height="1"/><br /></form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-48192143030083695022007-10-05T09:52:00.014+02:002010-03-04T06:45:14.732+01:00Sample Chapters 1-2 of The Albatross in the AbyssA young seafaring adventurer, Cy, fights for his survival since his sailboat sank in the South Pacific Ocean. Just as it seems there is no avenue of hope remaining, an albatross lands on his life raft and enters into a conversation with him. From that point on, his view of the world changes and his philosophical overview of man’s relationship to the planet change. These changes are not minor or insignificant---rather, they are major and mind shattering.<br /> In the course of his relationship with Awhi, the seabird, the ocean, and with the final stages of desperation itself, Cy comes to understand that death is not to be feared, and that losing physical life is nothing compared to a barren mortal.<br /> He also comes to understand that Awhi is the symbolic challenge of adversity itself. Through the apparition of a harmless but all-knowing bird, he sees himself overcoming all of his earlier fears, angers, and doubts.<br /> Awhi, in a sense, becomes the drop of water that becomes a fountain that can save a life.<br /> But, in an even grander sense, we see that Cy’s eventual death is not a defeat, but its antithesis.<br /><br /><br />Chapter 1<br /><br /><br />“How are you, Cy?” the bird said, he imagined, exposing the whiteness of her huge underwings. Her artificial-looking, pinkish, webbed-feet pushed forward to land on the life raft brightly exposed by the sun.<br />“Beautiful landing,” he encouraged, even though she had landed awkwardly and unsteadily on the bobbing raft.<br />“Got any idea bigger than the ocean?”<br />“I wish I could drink a glass of chilled water from a glacier this afternoon,” he said. A glass of chilled water from a glacier for him referred to a fish. It was not the flesh that mattered most; his greatest need was for moisture to quench his thirst.<br />Cy, tall and slim, was used to leisurely sailing alone in the South Pacific Ocean. But now, he was fighting for his survival after his small sailboat, Confidence, had sunk abruptly. The mental struggle to live paralleled the counter-balancing of the sharply tipped full sail with every ounce of his strength.<br />He had seen neither any ships nor birds about him except for a few occasional exhibitions of flounder escaping and chasing over the surface. Sandwiching himself between the sky and the sea, absolute isolation was what he had come to understand as the worst form of punishment. But, in a sense, he was proud of himself because, somehow, he kept a distance from despair. It was the same degree of pride that he had when sailing on the rough sea lightly and skillfully. He wished he could talk to someone, anyone! To maintain his sanity he started to talk to himself. He also let his mind travel to many different places that he knew well in order to obliterate the shallowness of being alone. He also considered his Life Raft, his Hook, his Hope, his Will and his Memories---both good and bad---as friends, but, in fact, these were his only possessions in the whole world. Sarcastically, he had named his life raft, More Confidence for the sake of capitalizing on courage and to support his firm belief that fear of uncertainty is a human vice. Playfully, --yes, playfully--he considered it as his “gymnasium” since he believed activity is a human virtue.<br />Then after the first twenty days, a bird had first visited him. Cy talked to it softly, imagining what it might reply to ease his cheerless solitude, as if he played chess with the bird. Not bad idea, he thought, if stones could talk. The bird visited Cy religiously, almost daily. Glue, produced by the fear of loneliness, binds people together. Was the bird also lonely?<br />Realistically, the wandering albatross did not need him, but he needed her to break his solitude. It was very much a one-sided relationship. “No problem,” he thought. “I have to take good care of her. She might bring me good luck.”<br />Cy was just taking life a day at a time, for the best, not knowing what the future would bring. His gloomy eyes looked like a losing fighter with hardly enough strength to continue. Yet there was a gleam of confidence in his eyes, indicating his resolution to meet any obstacle, which might present itself.<br />Cy was carrying a heavy baggage of anger, frustration and disappointment, which even a camel would run away from. But his spirit was still high. He had not lost hope, which rose and ebbed like the tide, even though he had lost considerable weight. The hope was that somehow an aeroplane would spot him and send a distress signal to a passing ship to set him at unrestraint.<br />“Tell me, Cy, how is it going? Where have you been today?”<br />“I watched an old black and white movie-----a bowl of shrimp salad with Thousand Island dressing.”<br />“Chop-Chop. I’m glad you had a good time today. I don’t want you lying on your bed all day long.”<br />“Freedom kicks me kindly.”<br />“A poor old bird showed his love for Mekko. Isn’t it wonderful to see one who has soul? His wings weren’t sufficient for that distance of flight.”<br />Cy remembered what he had heard from her.<br />“In Badao there is a brightly colored baruo [as if someone had colored him with a full set of Crayola crayons.]. His name is----- On fine days he usually perches----- Whenever I see him he hurts me,” she had said. “-----robbed his po-----”<br />“Oh, I feel sorry for him. Probably the koko-to is spiritualizing his restaurant with him.”<br />“He looks as if he would fly away at any moment. It’s not until you get closer to him, his sad secret is revealed. You can’t see the trimmed feathers held close to his body. Mekko’s job is to attract people into the cafe.”<br />“As a sandwich man.”<br />“People love Mekko. They stop by and eagerly talk to him and Mekko talks back with his short, thick black tongue involuntarily and mechanically. But none of them feel sorry about his inability to fly.”<br />“People are heartless.”<br />“Mekko’s claws and beak have been trimmed [with emery boards] by the koko-to. I can’t believe the koko-to is so cruel.”<br />“How long has Mekko been serving the koko-to?”<br />“About three years. He gets plenty of free sunflower seeds for his work. I feel sorry for Mekko, even though his job isn’t as hard as those kao-too [performing all day long for their tiny portions of free sunflower seeds.]”<br />“Where did Mekko come from?”<br />“Saro. He doesn’t remember how he was brought to Maro. All he remembers is that he was captured in a forest with his friends by a toro [man] with a net. He was kept in a cage with hundreds of fellow baruo [prisoners]. He was then smuggled out along with a few other baruo.”<br />“It sounds like the slaves who were kept on Goree Island until the slave ships came to take them away. They couldn’t escape because of the dangerous sea with many sharks around.”<br />“I am working hard to get Mekko his freedom. We are collecting quo from all kinds of karo to have his case heard in front of the court [civil court] in Badao. But we can’t begin till we garner enough quo to equal all of the leaves of a big tree to fill a nest.”<br />“I hope the tree can bear fruit.”<br />“Mekko should be freed immediately. He was born to fly, like as a fish to swim. The Koko-to must have the responsibility of taking care of him until his po [damaged wings] fully restored. The good thing is koko-to didn’t cut any of his flight muscle tendon-----”<br />“I wish you good luck, Awhi and good luck to your friend Mekko. Let me know what’s going on with him,” he had said.<br />Inspecting the sky, which was covered with white clouds, Cy hoped to hear the vibration of an engine.<br />The celestial songs of fragrance of friendship drifted out of the raft.<br />................<br /><br /><br /><br /> Chapter 2<br /><br />Nourishment was a matter of choice, he thought. He examined the mass of the two-day-old fish’s organs that hung down from the hook hoping it would attract a tastier and larger fish. He managed a mirthful grin as he tossed into the murky water hoping the scent of it attract a tastier and larger fish. Narrowing your choices of food avoids ruining your intestines, he said to himself. Rotten intestine harms your spirit-----books, friends and places.<br />“What a funny matter!” Cy muttered, longing to hear the sounds of engines in the sky, which gave him a headache whenever he heard them while covering the civil war in Afghanistan as a freelance journalist.<br /><br />The high pine forest was so quiet. They often had to grab the lower branches of pine trees as they were climbing down in order to prevent themselves from slipping. The branches swung back and forth after they were released and the dry snow fell off the needles like powder. Often Cy picked up a handful of clean snow from the needles to quench his thirst. That was after they all climbed every carefully in the snowcapped rugged mountains of the southeastern Province of Konarha, Afghanistan. They helped each other with rifles stretched out to reach the higher places safely. Virtually everyone in the small band of mujahideen, mostly young boys, was walking towards the town of Asmar, wearing grass-rope-soled shoes, so badly worn, that they might as well have been barefoot. Cy was the only one wearing a fine pair of proper boots and he felt sorry for his companions. He marveled at the way they walked skillfully and tirelessly up and down the steep and rugged mountain slopes. They hardly stopped to rest as if they were competing to make a trip around the world in the shortest possible time .Beneath the big open sky, they hid themselves behind large boulders as several helicopter gunships flew high above them. They were flying very high, appearing very small. The rebels wore the apple-pie-shaped flat brown hats like ID cards identifying them as insurgents.<br /><br />Sometime, in the violent mid-day heat, he fell asleep drifting as he was riding the bulginess of brine with the line around his big toe to wake him until he heard the whoosh of a long set wings soaring above him.<br />“I hope you still keep my picture with you.”<br />“Until I get tired.”<br />“Have you eaten, Cy?”<br />“I made an octopus sandwich and I enjoyed it with wine,” he said resourcefully.<br />“Great,” she said playfully.<br />“I have some more. You want some?" he asked teasingly.<br />“No thanks,” she replied drolly. "I did fly too long, didn't I?"<br />"You were just drifting."<br />"Dreaming."<br />"I didn't want to be hanged."<br />"Oh, stop it."<br />"One who destroys one's dream is no worth than a flier."<br />"Don't be too harsh."<br />"Tell me. Do your wings rattle when you fly through the clouds?"<br />"Didn't you notice that? That's why I am angling as much as I can."<br />"I wish an eagle eyed pilot could spot me out easily, like you from up high can easily spot the fish swimnmning near the surface."<br />"Don't you have any idea, yet?" asked she ominously.<br />"What it mean?"<br />"Oh, forget it. cy, what are you going to-----"<br />“Write a book about this.”<br />“Oh, you told me. A happy ending is what I’m looking for then.”<br />“Without a happy ending, actually, there won’t be any beginning of it.”<br />....................<br /><br />----------------------<br /><span>A copy of this book is available at 20.00 EURO (3 EURO shipping).</span><br /><br />As soon as payment is made through PayPal, the item will be shipped to you, anywhere around the world.<br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input value="_xclick" name="cmd" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="hideoasano@hotmail.com" name="business" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="Lasting Hunger" name="item_name" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="20.00" name="amount" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="3.00" name="shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="0" name="no_shipping" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="1" name="no_note" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="EUR" name="currency_code" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="JP" name="lc" type="hidden"/><br /><input value="PP-BuyNowBF" name="bn" type="hidden"/><br /><input border="0" alt="paypal" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynow_SM.gif" name="submit" type="image"/><br /><img border="0" alt="" width="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" height="1"/><br /></form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-44197824913974762972007-09-10T09:27:00.006+02:002008-09-08T09:02:32.740+02:00Several Hideo Asano Collections Available for Purchase<a href="http://www.hideoasano.com/2007/07/american-breakfast-his-first-novel.html">An American Breakfast by Hideo Asano</a><br /><br />Kenji Shimada, a foreign student, was stranded along a dusty road in the middle of nowhere on his way to New York from Los Angeles. His Porsche broke down while he was delivering it. Now, far from rescue, where was he? In the little Grand Island town, George Harris introduces him to the Harris family where Kenji helps out on the farm while waiting for the car to be repaired. Throughout his few weeks with the family, Kenji learned the way of the farmer’s hands. Despite their different backgrounds, Kenji and George have more things in common than expected. As they deal with their issues, they display a remarkable capacity for enduring difficult times. One could enrich the stomach by eating from big plates on big trays, but all it takes is a little bowl to satisfy one. This is a simple heart-warming story that is a pleasant and enriching read. <a href="http://writerasano.blogspot.com/2007/07/sample-chapters-1-2-of-american.html">Read the first two chapters here.</a><br /><br />You may purchase this novel by ordering directly via <a href="mailto:hideoasano@hotmail.com">email</a> or by PayPal (the button below). The price of a hardcopy version would be 20.00 EURO (3 EURO shipping).<br /><br />As soon as payment is made through PayPal, the item will be shipped to you, anywhere around the world.<br /><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_xclick"><br /><input type="hidden" name="business" value="hideoasano@hotmail.com"><br /><input type="hidden" name="item_name" value="An American Breakfast"><br /><input type="hidden" name="amount" value="20.00"><br /><input type="hidden" name="shipping" value="3.00"><br /><input type="hidden" name="no_shipping" value="0"><br /><input type="hidden" name="no_note" value="1"><br /><input type="hidden" name="currency_code" value="EUR"><br /><input type="hidden" name="lc" value="JP"><br /><input type="hidden" name="bn" value="PP-BuyNowBF"><br /><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynow_SM.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="お支払いはPayPalで - 迅速、無料、安全です"><br /><img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"><br /></form><br /><br />---------------------------------------<br /><br /><a href="http://www.hideoasano.com/2007/07/preview-travellers-collection-of-poems.html">A Traveller's Collection of Poems by Hideo Asano</a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.hideoasano.com/2007/07/preview-travellers-collection-of-poems.html">Read the samples here.</a><br /><br /><br />The hardcopy of A Traveller's Collection of Poems is available at 20.00 EURO ( 3 EURO shipping).<br /><br />As soon as payment is made through PayPal, the item will be shipped to you, anywhere around the world.<br /><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_xclick"><br /><input type="hidden" name="business" value="hideoasano@hotmail.com"><br /><input type="hidden" name="item_name" value="A Traveller's Collection of Poems"><br /><input type="hidden" name="amount" value="20.00"><br /><input type="hidden" name="shipping" value="3.00"><br /><input type="hidden" name="no_shipping" value="0"><br /><input type="hidden" name="no_note" value="1"><br /><input type="hidden" name="currency_code" value="EUR"><br /><input type="hidden" name="lc" value="JP"><br /><input type="hidden" name="bn" value="PP-BuyNowBF"><br /><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynow_SM.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt="お支払いはPayPalで - 迅速、無料、安全です"><br /><img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"><br /></form>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-58089702102949113532007-07-27T16:42:00.020+02:002010-03-04T06:52:22.093+01:00Launch of An American Breakfast - Latest Revised EditionThe novel, An American Breakfast, is currently available.<br/><br/><br /><br /><p>Contact "Hideo Asano at hotmail . com" (no spaces)</p>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-87836458462386588052007-07-23T14:48:00.002+02:002008-09-06T18:57:48.109+02:00Preview - A Traveller's Collection of Poems<p><br /><strong>Unselfish Love</strong><br /><br />I don’t care about me<br />But I care about you.<br />I care for you now<br />I will care for you forever.<br />That will take care of me<br />That will take care of both.<br />That will take care of both now<br />That will take care of both forever.<br />I really don’t care about me<br />But I really care about you.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Old good wine takes care of serious wine drinkers.<br />Serious wine drinkers take care of old good wine. </p><br /><br /><p><br /><strong>Difference</strong><br /><br />Everybody looks different but says the same thing.<br />I prefer everybody to look the same but speak differently.<br />All the trees have different shades but say nothing.<br />I prefer everybody to look different but remain silent! </p><br /><br /><p><br /><strong>Artists</strong><br />Jesus couldn’t stand on earth without Earthly Kingdom.<br />Artists couldn’t stand on earth with much earthly possessions<br />Earthly possessions kill Romanticism and freedom<br />Thank God, at least, artists AREN’T Jesus. </p><br /><br /><br />A copy of this book is available at 20.00 EURO (3 EURO shipping).hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-40131659837234230382007-07-17T15:56:00.012+02:002010-03-04T06:46:32.160+01:00Sample Chapters 1 - 2 of An American BreakfastThe highway, taking Kenji Shimada across the country in the fire-engine-red Porshche 914-4 he was delivering to New York, had had now become a picture postcard. The amazingly flat landscape of Nebraska, as seen from the interstate throughway, resembled a football field, and was both alive and breathing. The breeze through the open windows carried the powerfully suggestive scent of sweet, growing corn, and nothing, thought Kenji, could be more alive and breathing than that.<br /> Then, without warning, he saw a geyser of black smoke billowing from the engine compartment behind his seat.<br /> “Chikusho!” he exclaimed, remembering the car delivery representative had warned him to check the oil frequently because the oil gauge didn’t work properly.<br /> He exited the car dejectedly. Then he opened the engine compartment from which smoke billowed. Kenji, praying the engine hadn’t been permanently damaged, pulled out the dipstick and was shocked to find the oil tank empty. He knew now that his well-planned schedule had been ruined. He closed the hood and angrily kicked the car’s tire. Delivering the high-priced sports car to New York seemed a good idea at the time, but the result was becoming ....<br /></p><p align="center"><strong><em>Two</em> </strong></p><p align="justify">Thirty minutes later, the Porsche was towed into the station.<br /> “One hell of a beautiful car! What year is it?”<br /> “Seventy-four.”<br /> “Let me try to start it,” said the shorthaired mechanic. The engine was completely dead.<br /> The mechanic opened the engine compartment and examined the dipstick.<br /> “There’s no oil!” he said disgustedly.<br /> “No.”<br /> “When was the last time you checked it?”<br /> “In L.A.”<br /> “I hate to tell you this-----but you might have blown the engine.”<br /> “How much to fix it?” Kenji asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.<br /> “I can’t tell until I get a good look inside to see the extent of the damage.”<br /> “How long will it take?”<br /> “I’m sure it’ll take a least a week to get the parts alone, if I can get them at all. Call me tomorrow afternoon. I’ll give you an answer then.”<br /> “All right.”<br /> With his bag in his hand, Kenji left the gas station and started meandering about town. Where should I stay? In any event, I’ll have to call my father in Japan to ask for some money.<br /> A middle-aged woman watering her lawn turned and stared at him as he walked by. A group of boys sitting on the steps of one of the houses stopped talking, nudged one another and stared at him as if they had never seen an Oriental before. Walking in the town he began to feel uncomfortable---even isolated. Nebraska is certainly different from California, he said to himself. Being Asian never drew any attention there.<br /> He went into Denny’s. Inside, it was cool and clean. Several people, who were sitting at the tables, looked at him intently as he entered. He could feel the weight of their stares. He took a stool at the counter.<br /> “Hi,” said a very attractive waitress of about eighteen carrying a glass of ice water. She had a casually arranged up-sweep of dark brown hair in which the top fell softly forward, artfully undone.<br /> “May I have a large ice tea?”<br /> “Sure. With lemon?”<br /> “Yes.”<br /> With one gulp he did justice to it. It disappeared into him just as a drop of water in Nevada desert. Then he gazed at the clean nape of her neck as she walked away.<br /> When she returned with the ice tea, she said, “New here?”<br /> “This town likes an oasis.”<br /> “You couldn’t be further from the truth.”<br /> “What’s the population of this town?”<br /> “The baker down the street can tell you that. We all buy bread from him. I would say more or less-----”<br /> “He could feed the whole world.”<br /> “For sure thing we have more grain fields and dairy farms than the high rises. Where are you from?” </p><p></p>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2984548278216491080.post-32286961149673110162007-07-16T13:32:00.000+02:002007-07-17T12:08:04.785+02:00Brief Introduction of Hideo Asano<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q6I_kDR-9n4/RptjC6uNyxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/WObCYMoCyLY/s1600-h/Asanosan1-small.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5087769105819093778" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_q6I_kDR-9n4/RptjC6uNyxI/AAAAAAAAAAM/WObCYMoCyLY/s400/Asanosan1-small.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">(Photo copyright<span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"> ©</span> Susan Branz)</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">Hideo Asano is partly educated in Southern California who has travelled extensively around the world. As a freelance journalist, he also covered the civil war inside Afghanistan during the occupation of the Soviet Union.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">He spent a great amount of time talking with injured rebels, refugees and capturing their respective individual stories which is reflected in his short stories, poems, novels, speeches and other writings. He is bilingual in Japanese and English.</span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:Arial;">He is looking forward to sharing his works with the world.</span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:Arial;">He can be contacted via email: <a href="mailto:hideoasano@hotmail.com">hideoasano@hotmail.com</a> </span></p><br /><p align="justify"></p><br /><div></div>hideo asanohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795772940051150915noreply@blogger.com0