Month: October 2019

On a damp and chilled evening in the early 1980s in Chicago, I joined my friend, Tim Glisson, to discover a newly opened Sushi Bar. It was off of the beaten track of places to eat in Andersonville and it was on a side street in a store front. It no longer exists. We arrived, found seats at the bar, and placed our jackets on the backs of the chairs. When the Sushi master (Komada San) saw us he took a long gaze through which we felt his focus. He was the only one in the establishment other than his two guests – US.

We were served steaming green tea in large mugs and our verbal orders were taken as he started preparing our orders. However he kept glancing at us as he meticulously prepared our food. About mid meal, Komada San started a fractured conversation about his leaving Japan a few years prior and moving to Chicago where his wife had relatives. He stated that he wanted to have a small and elegant Sushi Bar – it only seated 8 – 10 at the bar and only one narrow table for 4 past the entrance. The appointments were refined as were all of the pottery and ceramics made by Japanese artisans and cultural treasures. Our oblong napkins were cotton cloth of hand dyed deep indigo with subtle grey details. He was very gentle in his dialogue and eventually asked if we had ever traveled to or in Japan. I replied Yes.
Then he asked, “in what years?” I sensed he was directing the conversation for information as he took another long stare particularly at me.

Next he stated you must have been a student. “Correct” I responded. Next was, “What did you study?” When I replied that at Waseda I had focused on Nihon Bunka (Japanese Culture) he again focused tight with his eyes squinting, took a deep breath and continued with what other places had I studied. I responded with a long list of the Umewaka Noh Theatre, Nishikawa School of Classical Dance (Nihon Buyo), the National Museum, and the Imperial School of Music and Dance. At the end, after a pause I mentioned the Grand Kabuki Theatre.

Next he inquired as to the names of my teachers. I responded with the names and he replied that they were national treasures and it would be rare and unusual for Japanese students or artists to have the opportunity to study with any of them. I informed him of my support with fellowships from the Fulbright Association and the Japan Foundation, etc. He seemed to be satisfied with my answers and then he asked, “Is your name Ronny or Lonny?” With my affirmative response he clasped his hands and moved around the counter and seated himself beside me and took my hand in his and told a loving story of recognition. All of this being witnessed by my friend Tim.

He had owned and been the sushi chief of a very intimate place exactly 2 blocks behind the Kabuki Za where I had my lessons and many studies with Kanzaburo Nakamura XVII. The story that unfolded was how he had been contacted by Kanzaburo personally in order to arrange the place where I could be picked up after my lessons, but no statement of who would pick me up was made by my venerable teacher. This was an outcome of my confiding in Kanzaburo about meeting Yukio on the street at the end of a prior week after my lessons as I was walking to Wako department store. This meeting story was published in Impressions Magazine in 2017, edited by Julia Meech.

Shortly some days after this talk, I went backstage to be greeted by Yukio in the dressing with Kanzaburo. A discussion evolved about discretion and privacy and no public or press/media scandal in order to protect all involved. Also allowing me to learn in depth about scrutiny and having a private life while learning in depth about the inner workings of a society steeped in tradition.

What was arranged: After my lessons on prior planned dates, I would walk to this Sushi location and take a seat by the window. I would order a small meal with green tea and await for a car to slow in front and then move down the block while I paid my tab. Then I would exit to my right and walk to the middle of the block to the waiting car, and off we would go to a great adventure of looking at handmade silks, selecting the most exquisite fans, a drive to the ocean, an evening of private dining, soaking in spring fed hot baths, etc.

On one occasion, I was late as I had gone to the restroom and when I returned to the Window where I always was seated, the car had stopped in front and the back right window was partly opened and there was Yukio gesturing for me to come along. In this instant Komada San recognized the face inside of the car window, and he came to understand the reasoning of Kanzaburo for a place for me to come after specific lessons. He confided that this secret was ours, but that he had always wondered when the car slowed outside as to who, what, why and in that moment he comprehended the delicacy and weight of the gesture and contact by Kanzaburo.

Many deep abiding lessons were learned from and with a truly great teacher – a master of his art and of living a life in the public eye of the theatre and constant media.

Entry – June 23, 2019

It was not about leaving, it was about a passage to another place and yet I was leaving. I had been living in Las Vegas since 1991 and now 13 years had passed. The cleaning out of the house became a monumental effort of getting rid of stuff (from clothing to books to furniture to accumulations of whatever had been gifted). I recall spending most of two months starting in April and daily clearing out a space, a shelf, a drawer, a surface, a memory and many memories, and clearing out myself from heart to soul through psyche.

I literally gave away or gifted or donated a wardrobe of clothing that dated back to a time living in NYC from the 1970s. I packed boxes of just neckties, of shoes I never wore again, of art papers, and of sins with the blessings of the saints. I found many things that had been stored and forgotten in one of the four bedrooms. All was meticulously arranged along a wall in the double door entrance. I had arranged to spend my last night in the home of a friend after the movers came and emptied out the house and the last day I bid the house a loving good bye by burning incense and pissing one more time in the back yard. The 1993 Black Jaguar was sent off to Illinois in a moving truck and the 2000 Green Jaguar packed “to the full” hit the road and drove into the desert through the mountains across the plains and arrived in the cornfields. What had I done? Where was this new adventure to go with my hopes and fears?

Arriving in Bloomington, Illinois, early morning after a one night stop along the road – Life repeated itself in an omen and a warning and I found a place not ready to allow me to settle. In Las Vegas in 1991, Mrs. McNair was not moved out and arranged for me to stay in an apartment for which she paid until over two months had passed and her transition to her new home was made. I started a new academic position in a new city living out of temporary housing and not unpacked and not settled.

Arriving in Las Vegas with a moving van scheduled the same day, I was greeted by Mrs. McNair and told I could place as much as possible in one emptied bedroom and store the rest on the porch and that she had arranged an apartment for me across the street from my new office. I had had an anterior cruciate ligament and meniscus operation and was in a brace and would undergo three more years of rehabilitation therapy with Jack Close in Las Vegas. This apartment was on a second stair up level and 4 blocks from my new office. I faced the challenge. This was at the start of July and I did not get to move into my home at 412 Park Way East until the middle of September. The dates in Illinois were the same to the date of moving into 1030 East Monroe Drive.

The apartment in Bloomington was owned by the man from whom I had purchased my home and it was half underground where car lights directly came into the bedroom windows. My neighbors were aggressive with their use of garlic and curry and all permeated the building and skin and clothing. Again a new city, a new academic position, continued therapy for my spine that had acted up moving from Las Vegas, and a place where I was unable to settle. I lived out of my suitcases for over 2 and a half months in each city, and I was moving into my new homes on my birthday, September 21st. Thirteen years apart life patterns repeated. Las Vegas equaled Lost Wages. Bloomington – Normal was Bloomless – Abnormal.

Entry – October 25, 2018

In Bloomington, Illinois, I awoke one morning with groin pain that caused me to crumple when I got out of bed. I located a Urologist in the community and he saw me in the afternoon. Asking me to drop my slacks and underwear, he did not touch me and he stated that I had epididymitis (testicle infection), and to take the antibiotic he prescribed.

By the next morning, I had a high fever and my testicles were turning blue. I called Dr. Fernando Ojea in Chicago and he instructed me to pack my groin in ice and immediately drive to Methodist Hospital in Chicago. When I arrived four hours later a sonogram was administered and I was rushed to a Persian urologist, Dr. Emil Totonchi, and he operated on me that late afternoon. When I awakened, Dr. Totonchi was at my bedside and told me that he had saved my life.
My problem was testicular torsion in both testicles and he had stabilized each one with three wires so this would not happen again. How it happened originally is still a mystery as the night before I crumpled getting out of bed had been spent at my computer for a time of about 6 hours. This was in the time of autumn 2007.

My recovery in Chicago took place in the home of Timothy Glisson. It was a 12 days odyssey of being packed in Ice and resting on the living room couch. Finally being able to drive my car that had been saved by Barry Johnson and parked in his garage I visited the Dr. to learn of when I could return to Bloomington packed in ice.

During this recovery time, Tim christened me with a new name – and I became Autta Mae Bea Gawzballs which was also spelled Gawz-Bohls. The Autta Mae Bea was taken form an expression i had used in Texas Slang – “Ought to maybe”. The Gawzballs stuck due to being wrapped in gauze and packed in ice.
Some time later, I received a box of 30 engraved note cards gifted by Timothy Glisson that were Lavender with a silver embossed name – Autta Mae Bea Gawz-Balls, esq

I used all of these note cards until there were none. The great humor was the recipients who did not connect with from where they were sent or me as the sender. Autta Mae Bea had struck again with her dry and dark humor.

Several months later I visited the Urologist in Bloomington. After explaining to him what had happened and that his diagnosis was not accurate he just stared at me in silence. Then he picked up a pear, took a bite, spit it out, and said, “Well aren’t you lucky that you had a Doctor in Chicago who saved your life.”
Cold
Calculated
Arrogant
and he never apologized…
another life lesson lived by Autta Mae Bea
many times we OUTTA MAYBE
Entry – October 17, 2018