Finding a Rhythm

The Drummer a Review

         Music can have a profound impact on how we see and experience our world, whether we learn to play it or learn to listen to it. This effect is hard to describe, it is like explaining how an epiphany feels. It is better to witness this effect first hand, of course if that can’t be done, it can be shown through story telling. This is what the movie The Drummer does, it shows you how music effected a young man.

The main character, Sid, is the son of a Hong Kong gangster, Kwan, whose hot tempered disposition ruined his marriage driving away Sid’s mother. This left him and his sister Sina to grow up with their father’s extreme moods. To cope with the loss of his mother Sid turns to drumming. However, Sid also acts out, much like his father and eventually gets his father into trouble with a more powerful member of the Hong Kong underworld. To protect his son Kwan sends Sid away to hide in Taiwan, not Taipei, the metropolis capital of the island, but out in the countryside. While staying there under the watchful eye of an older member of his father’s gang, Ah Chiu, Sid discovers in the hills behind his house a group of drummers who practice Zen drumming. While it is Sids’ love of drumming that motivates him to join the group, the presence of a firery young woman, Hong Dou, in the troupe doesn’t hurt. 

Like Zen, the style of drumming portrayed in the film originally comes from China, but both were adopted by Japan. Many in the west are familiar with the large drums beaten upon with thick wooden sticks popularized by troupes such as Kodo, from Japan. To play such instruments takes a different kind of training, it is a full body work out, not counting on the mental training. To be apart of such a group, in the traditional sense, means a high level of commitment and discipline, things that Sid lacks.

Sid is able to join these drummers and goes through a maturation process that helps him cross over into adulthood. This process is not without setbacks as Sid adjusts to the different lifestyle practiced by these monk like performers. He also has difficultly communicating to Hong Dou who he is as a person, which makes for some tension. He has to leave behind his Hong Kong ego and love of wealth and freedom and become a drummer.

The performances in this movie are wonderful and real. Sid is played by Jaycee Chan who clearly shows his character go from cocky brat to intensely focused young man. Tony Leung Ka Fai plays Kwan and brilliantly shows the aggressive gangster who hides away a much softer side and deeper understanding of his faults and how they have effected his children. The actresses in this movie do a top job of being fierce fighters for their place in the world and defenders of the weak. It is the women who fill the strongest roles. Sids’ sister, Sina, played by Josie Ho, is a veterinarian and stands up to her fathers wild anger to protect her brother and her choice of husband, never backing down. Hong Dou, played by Angelica Lee, is a disciplined young women with no fear, proven when she attacks Sid in a market area for being a bully. While the troupe is lead by a master drummer, it’s run by a woman named Lan Jie, played by Liu Ruo-yu, who is  pure example of Zen clam and determination. She is motherly to young Sid, but willing to put him in his place if needed. 

The movie is filled with memorable scenes and beautiful camera work. One of the most touching scenes is when Sid, who wants to perform for his father, plays his drums outside the walls of the prison his father is locked away in. There are picturesque shots of the Taiwanese countryside were the drummers practice. These scenes are shot in a way to suggest a protected area, not just the environment, but the art that is practiced there. Kenneth Bi seems to be saying there must be room in our lives for scared places and scared arts. Having always possessed a love for this style of drumming, because of its’ highly meditative and intense nature, I was immediately interested in watching this movie. I was pleased to be given more than just a drum-line performance with some cheesy ‘boy gets girl after learning to drum’ story. I was pleased to see that Kenneth Bi’s love of drumming and Zen go much deeper. 

A Review of Sister Suicide

Sister Suicide

By Nick Wilgus

We have all heard how difficult the first novel for an author can be. We hear even more often how much more difficult the second novel is. So, when I started reading Sister Suicide, the second Father Ananda book, I had to wonder if it would be as compelling as the first. Mindfulness and Murder had a monk who was struggling with anger and who possessed a biting sarcasm, but also a devotion to justice and the principles of the Buddha’s teachings. Would that same character maintain his appeal? Would the next mystery he faced be as thrilling? In this second endeavor, both Mr. Wilgus and Father Ananda show their readers there is plenty to be thrilled over.

This tale of Father Ananda has him investigating a monastery running a religious theme park, at the request of the Maha Thera Samakhom, a governing body of Thai Buddhism. A nun at the monastery apparently, without leaving a note, committed suicide by jumping into an enclosure full of crocodiles in the theme park. Father Ananda takes along the newly ordained Jak with him to seek out the truth and the trouble starts the minute they get there. The mystery of the nun’s death reveals a dark and nasty secret the monastery has been hiding in plain sight and which has connections all over the rural countryside in which the monastery located. 

In Mindfulness and Murder I had ideas about who was guilty of what and why, but in Sister Suicide the plot is more complicated. I was still guessing by the end of the book who Father Ananda was looking for, and sometimes Ananda didn’t know himself. Such careful story telling left me turning page after page hoping for a break in the case that was frustrating Father Ananda so much. 

Father Ananda himself is even more enjoyable, as those traits which made him so appealing in the first novel are showcased even more. Ananda is not a superhero, he is just a man. He feels angry, a fault he admits readily, gets frustrated, is compassionate and willing to sacrifice myself for a just cause. It is always a sacrifice as Ananda is not a fighter, he is not even young. Even in the more athletic scenes of the novel, Ananda acts his age. The threat of violence, while it fills him with fear, does not deter him, making him even more endearing of a character to follow. 

Mr. Wilgus’s straight forward style makes Sister Suicide such a fun read. It stays moving but always making sure the reader is not getting lost in a larger cast of characters and a more intricate example of the underside of Thai politics and life. Life in Thailand is an important aspect of the novels as well. While, entertaining is foremost in mind Mr. Wilgus’s also adds commentary on the injustices suffered by many in modern day Thailand. However, he never demonizes the people or the Kingdom. Instead he shows how the poor and powerless can stand up to the corruption around them and he does this through the very human character of Father Ananda and those that follow his lead. While not a superhero, Father Ananda is a very relatable hero that embodies the Buddha’s teachings. In the tradition of great literary sleuths, without overshadowing the mystery itself, Father Ananda becomes the reason you want to read the novel.

A Review of Tone Deaf in Bangkok

Tone Deaf in Bangkok and Other Places

Author: Janet Brown

Photographs: Nana Chen

Years ago I sat in a Thai restaurant in Kansas watching a young lady pour hot tea into my cup. I knew that day I had fallen in love with that woman. She has been my wife for ten years now. What I didn’t know was that another love affair had started that day as well, one with Thailand and her people. Over the years I have sought to learn all I can about the country and it’s people, all without having the opportunity to set foot on Bangkok's streets. Books have been one of my main sources of information and enjoyment. I have taken in any book I could find with fierce gluttony. That is why I am ever grateful when an author like Janet Brown shares their experiences of the land I have loved from afar. 

Mrs. Brown takes her reader through a small portion of her life as a westerner in Bangkok in the same way someone tells a story over coffee. There is no real sense of time, she just shares what has effected her most. She talks about small things with an acute focus, like a mattress being abandoned in an overgrown vacant lot. She focuses on the people she met, like her friend Eddy, who exemplifies the Thai philosophy of Sanuk, or having fun. She showcases many Thai attitudes about life like their concern over ghosts. A belief in the after life weaving it’s way through everyday life is a staple of Thai culture. Whatever aspect she discusses she keeps it personal, these are her memories of her spiritual home and she isn’t glossing them over for to convince anyone to buy plane tickets and stay in four star hotels.

Each of the chapters are short and vivid, like someone sharing photographs and explaining each one with more memory than detailed events. The actual photographs used in the book, taken by Nana Chen, are perfect complements to Browns Polaroid chapters. They are wonderful shots taken of Bangkok life not seen in travel brochures. She catches people at their most natural whether they are a vendor selling food or using the bus. 

This book is not a guidebook that talks about all the fun places you can shop at to pick up distinctively Thai items to bring home as gifts. This book is not a travelogue that recalls a pleasant vacation taken by someone expecting to go home when it’s all done. I wouldn’t even call this a memoir, for that would imply the author was leading you along a path of thought she wanted you to follow. This is not the kind of book that demands from you, it is the kind that gives.

This book is more like a collection of poetry, short glimpses of a life being led comfortably out of place, or like an avant-grade independent film. It gives you beautifully disjointed views of a time and place. It takes you through a loose knit story that is too internal to show and better implied and when it reaches the end it offers no conclusion, for that is for you to determine. Of course, everyone who watches this movie will disagree about what the point was. My view of this book is simple, it was written for the author herself first and foremost, but it was also written for anyone who has lived and loved in this Kingdom. It invites those who have not, to find in the real Thailand those special moments when you know you have fallen in love. 

A Review of Winds of Khalakovo

The Winds of Khalakovo: The Lays of Anuskaya

Book One

By Bradley P. Beaulieu 

         I have always been interested in stories with airships, though I can’t recall what story first introduced me to such a concept, I remember many examples. By airships, I do mean something like Spanish flying galleons, whether by magic or some complex steampunk technology. There are many famous examples to examine, such as the entire Fantasy Final franchise, which always features airships of some kind. Hayao Miyazaki films never seem to disappoint when it comes to air travel. There is, however, a pitfall to airship stories, it is not wise to build the story around the technology used. That is why, I believe, Steampunk as a genre has not really taken off, too much love of tech. So, I picked up Mr. Beaulieu’s book, the first in a yet unfinished trilogy, with an airship prominently displayed on the cover, I was not expecting much. I was pleased to find that while the story needs more development, it is about people not tech. 

There are three main characters in Mr. Beaulieu’s first novel, Nikandr Khalakovo, who is a prince and struck with a wasting disease. Atiana Vostrama, Nikandr’s betrothed from a rival family, who is quite talented in riding the aether, something the woman of powerful families do. Then there is Rehada Ulan al Shineshka, a member of a what is essential a terrorist group and Nikandr’s lover. The story, revolves around these three people and a mystical boy named Nasim and what they do to save each other, Nasim and stop the all the powerful people from killing everyone. While easy to follow the story doesn’t provide enough detail to truly become apart of the world. At this point, I will not entirely hold that against the novel. Many fantasy novels take more than one book to fully explain their plots, which can equally be a negative and a positive. In the case of Khalakovo, I am not sure yet. 

There is a rift in the aether of this world that is causing the wasting disease that has inflicted many, including Prince Nikandr. It is somehow related to three people, long since dead and gone, but reincarnated in the novels current time. One of these reincarnations is in the boy Nasim, and he can either heal the rift or use it to destroy the world. This is why a group of Aramahn, known as the Maharraht, who are the terrorists that Rehada is a member of, want the boy. The Landed don’t understand this connection, but Nikandr does. The story is played out well through the relationships Nikandr has with Rehada and Atiana and includes a few airship chases and battles, complete with muskets and cannons, and elemental spirit attacks. All over the saving of this boy who everyone is trying to either capture or kill. 

The world that Mr. Beaulieu has created is quite intriguing. It is a grouping of large islands that hold two different kinds of people. The first are the Landed, a group patterned after late Czarist Russia. They are the Landed for they have settled tracks of land on the islands and tend to remain there, building societies. The next is the Aramahn, who are a mix between the Gypsies of Eastern Europe and flashes of Arabian culture. Even though these people have villages within the controlled area of the Landed they are more want to travel around somewhat like nomads, yet they tend to do this individually. These two groups have a rocky relationship as the Landed are very ordered and like to control things as well as look down on the Aramahn. They also hire the Aramahn to help fly their airships, because they Aramahn can control elemental sprits that move back and forth from the real world and their world around the islands. It is these spirits that seem to keep the airships afloat. The Aramahn are for the most part peace loving people who are too free spirited for centralized control and deeply spiritual, believing in reincarnation and forgiveness of those who have wronged them.

There are several aspects of this world that are unclear. While I don’t believe every last detail needs to be clarified to enjoy a story, sometimes certain aspects must be to help convey the impact of what you are reading. The spirits that the Aramahn bond with are not well defined. Why they manifest as they do is not fully explained. Why the Aramahn can bond with them when others can’t is not fully explained. Even their importance is not fully explained. This leaves the importance of the rift and the boy Nasim in question. The three godlike beings that caused the rift as well are a big question mark, even after Nikandr is exposed to one of them. It is not clear how the rift was even caused and why Nasim can fix it. 

There is also the aether, which was a cleaver invention of the author that involved a slightly erotic and understandably vulnerable ritual undertaken by the aristocratic women of the story. This is where Atiana’s natural aptitude shines, when she ‘takes the Dark’. However, it is not fully explained how the aether is connected to the world or why these women can do this when men can’t, which takes away from Ataina’s gifted use of it. So, again, while very entertaining the impact is lost. 

The relationship between the Landed and Aramahn is unclear as well. So, the distrust and sometimes dislike between them doesn't provide enough of a emotional motivation to be believed, especially when they work so close together. That calls into question the airships themselves. These people live on islands, so water going vessels should be common, and they are, but mostly only as fishing boats. So, why did the Landed take to the air with the help of their distrusted neighbors, especially when they have technology to make ships that would rival Napoleonic aquatic warfare? Only an arms race would explain this, but that level of tension between the Landed kingdoms is only hinted at.

While there was many well written dramatic scenes played throughout the story many fell flat for me as I wasn’t convinced of the importance of the players or the setting or some other aspect. The battle scenes and chase scenes while having potential were too civilized to have the raw emotional effect that they should. The relationship between Nikandr and the women in his life was a bright point. The affections between them where very different with both women and for different reasons. Although, the intimacy between Nikandr and Rehada made more sense, as it there was more history between them that allowed for more relationship building moments that humans naturally experience. While his relationship with Atiana seemed predestined, it was not explained by what. 

Nikandr’s connection with Nasim, though strong, is another aspect of the story left unclear. The Landed, at least the aristocracy, wear amulets that are connected to their life force. Nikandr’s is dim because of his disease. Somehow Nasim helps him through the stone he wears, but it is not clearly explained how or why. Nikandr develops an undying loyalty based on only what he suspects Nasim to be, because Nasim can’t talk, or just doesn’t most of the time. 

A Review of Mindfulness and Murder

Mindfulness and Murder

By

Nick Wilgus

        I started Mindfulness and Murder not sure what I was going to find. I have read crime dramas before and books dealing with all manner of issues concerning Thailand, but never have I encountered one that blended these two together. Considering Mr. Wilgus has spent some time in the Kingdom, I was hoping for something more in tune with the realities of Thai culture, and not the typical Hollywood view of a morally baseless Bangkok as an adult wonderland or a hell on earth entrapping ‘innocent’ westerners. Mr. Wilgus not only stayed away from all the cliches but showed his readers an easily graspable view of Thailand without overwhelming or lecturing them, all the while telling the tale of an excellent murder mystery. 

The story revolves around Father Ananda, a senior monk who used to a police officer. Ananda joined the order to escape dealing with personal problems that came from his career as police officer. One morning the body of a young man who is a part of a group of homeless boys that the temple is trying to help is murdered and left in a bathroom in a rather gruesome manner. The Abbot of the temple, knowing Anandas’ past asks him to investigate along with the regular police officers. This starts a larger ball of problems to unravel as Ananda gets closer to the truth, as he finds connections to a drug ring operating in his temple. 

Mindfulness and Murder is an American novel, meaning that Mr. Wilgus takes the head on approach to storytelling much the same way many great American authors have, which is, tell the story. He doesn’t get bogged down in details that do not help the story. He shows you the characters through their actions rather than trying to tell you what is going on in their heads. Father Ananda is the only exception to this, as the story is told in first person, but Wilgus keeps Ananda focused avoiding internal ramblings. The keeps the novel moving at a good clip and keeps it interesting.

The stylistic approach goes hand in hand with the Buddhist themes and wisdom weaved throughout the novel. Being mindful of his state of mind keeps Ananda from his internal ramblings, for example. He always pulls away from thinking too much about something that is not a part of the case. Showing the people in action is a more Buddhist approach then telling the reader about them. The characters, from the Abbot, to Brother Kittisaro, the computer nerd monk who administrates the front desk, are filled out by watching what they do and how they speak, rather than explained. Buddhism goes deep into this novel. The main character bears the name of Buddha’s foremost student, which ties into Anandas‘ character as the novel goes on, he is but a student himself. Wilgus does a great job of working in the fundamental wisdom of Thai Buddhism without being preachy. Anandas’ investigation is a growing processes for him as well as seeking justice for a forgotten and abused young man. 

I was also happy with how Mr. Wilgus dealt with the Kingdom of Thailand in his story. Thailand can be very confusing to many westerners and there are still many people who are completely unfamiliar with the country. Wilgus explains aspects of Thai culture clearly without turning the novel into a travelogue or cultural study. He sticks with what the reader needs to know about Thailand through Anandas’ eyes. This introduces Thailand to the reader and keeps them from getting trapped trying to understand many things that might be unfamiliar to them. For readers more familiar with Thailand Father Anandas’ adventures do not seem like a shallow scraping of Thai culture fished out of Lonely Planet guidebook. The depth is still there, but mindful of what needs to be understood for the sake of the story. 

I am very pleased to have read this novel and recommend it for anyone wanted a fun, approachable and very human story. I say read it for the tale Mr. Wilgus tells but take away a glimpse of Thailand and it’s Buddhism when you are done.

The Promise

        I hate funerals. I don’t hate them because they are sad, we must deal with loss. I don’t hate them because they are gloomy or heavy occasions, I can handle heavy gloom, I have worn it for years. I hate them because at each funeral you will see the most painful lies and truths exposed.

I remember arriving at the ugly apartment that my grandfather had moved to after giving up the family home. It had two front doors, attempting to add a sense of luxury, but instead producing another example of how ridiculous the ‘70s were. My grandfather was a socialite of the city. He was always out somewhere, engaged in wine tastings or watching plays, classical ensembles, having dinner with with doctors and lawyers who pretended to understand art.

He had not been seen or heard from in a few days, though we had just now pieced that together. He was hard to keep track of. My mother, though the black sheep of the family, was the most trusted. That is why the apartment’s management had called her. She was listed as an emergency contact, and they needed permission to enter the apartment. My grandfather had befriended an older lady who he was supposed to have dinner with and he hadn’t called or shown up. This lady lived in the same complex and knocked on his door. She got no response. My mother gave them permission than made her way over.

When I finally arrived with my wife the family was forced to wait over in the living room while paramedics removed his body from the bathroom. It appeared that he was in the process of using the toilet when his heart gave out. He slumped forward, cracking his head on the tub and then lying there for days. They EMT personnel kept us from seeing anything, but that mattered little. I stood next to the brown leather sofa that had been my grandmother’s favorite place to lay down and watch her soaps as she struggled with the cancer that killed her, and smelled grandfather as his rot wafted out of the small bathroom. 

My mother was red eyed, barely holding it in. My uncle had a lost look that always seemed to be plastered to his face, though this time it seemed being lost was actually painful for him. His wife smoked and drank from a forty-four ounce soda cup. My aunt Claudia was trying to be sad and assert some control over the situation. I felt this was inappropriate. This was just a time to grieve, not make plans or conduct affairs. She had an excuse though, the apartment complex needed things cleared out, rent was due. My cousins, they moved about the apartment claiming first dibs on items they liked. Everyone seemed to be having a cigarette. I had wished that I still smoked, if only to disguise my disgust. 

The funeral came quickly after that. It was a large affair, he was a man about town. The room the funeral parlor had given us was packed, standing room only. Outside the door to the room was a large TV that was playing a series photos from my grandfather’s life with music he enjoyed. So many people came to pay their respects. People he had dined with, helped out somehow, and people who just plain respected the man. His wine tasting buddies were there. The young opera singer he helped out and who given me some help with vocal coaching. The guys he played golf with and the guys he bought wine from. The members of his Jester order, high ranking Shriners. Tony, who was a foreign exchange student he had taken in, had prepared words to say about his adopted father. 

I had words to say as well. I stood at this podium complete with a microphone like a college professor. I had the paper with the eulogy I had written before me, but I didn’t need it. My grandfather had asked me when I was fourteen to write and speak the eulogy for his mother’s funeral, which I did. I wasn’t about to let him down at his own funeral. I looked out at this huge crowd and recognized many, others not so much, and I told them about my grandfather taking me to wine tastings before I could drink. He would hold out a glass and ask me to smell it. I would, then tell him what I smelled and he would taste to tell me if I was right. I remembered the question asked, “What do you smell?” being a question about life. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you taste? What is in front of you? What can you take from life so that you can live it, understand it, love it? I told these people what I should have told the dead man in the closed casket, that I would remember and pass on what he taught. I would teach my children to learn, understand and love life and friends. I promised, though didn’t understand any of it and was a poor student of people and relationships. I still promised. 

I sat with the rest of the family holding my wife’s hand as people filed by and silently wished Fredrick Clayton Hall a restful sleep. This took a long time. So many walked past but only after the members of the Shriner order did so first, and there were so many of them. The funeral parlor told us that somewhere around three hundred people signed in. We were already on the grounds of the cemetery so after a short trip we laid him in the dirt next to his wife, my grandmother.

It wasn’t long after that the family began to divide up his belongings. My aunt greedily laid claim to items citing a need for them, like some jealous child who felt ignored her whole life. My uncle’s wife did the same, always looking to her husband for support. My uncle wasn’t interested, he just said whatever. My cousins ran around grabbing things and asking, “Can I have this?” My mother, myself, my wife and my stepfather, a man I have a great deal of respect for, all stood in a corner next to the balcony, looking at the others. I am sure if they weren’t so busy pillaging the apartment they would have noticed the unfriendly looks on our faces. While I did take a few things myself I did so only after everyone else was done. I was not going to fight over the dead’s belongings. That was the last time I was together with everyone from that side of my family. I have seen them here and there, but I have never been interested in visiting with them. 

My grandfather’s funeral left me with questions and concerns. I was concerned that I might raise a family like the one I was apart of. I think I have been doing a good job of avoiding that fate. Plus, I doubt I will leave anything for my children to fight over, such has been my economic fortunes. 

I can’t shake the memory of all those people and what that meant. My grandfather, though well know, wasn’t a powerful person. These people came then out of respect and love, not seeking advancement or to be seen. Many people came to me after the funeral and told me how moved they were by my speech, sounding more sincere and upset at the loss than my own flesh and blood. 

I had to ask myself if this was some measure of success. The fact that so many people would miss Fred, counted for something, some kind of success. So, what if no one had shown up? What if no one had noticed he was even missing? Would that have meant he was a failure? A failure at life, at humanity? I could then, outside of my wife, count very few people who would care or notice my passing. Did this mean I was failing? Did this mean that the lessons taught to me by the wine glass had fallen on an incapable mind, an unfeeling soul? If you loved life then you loved people and had relations that were worthy of your time and respect. That was part of what he was teaching me. Yet, years later I resemble nothing of him and his relations. I am still failing my promise?