Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

it's one of those weeks. Nothing works. I sit around and struggle inside instead of doing Anything. I'll take Lamott's advice and take the voices in my head and drop them into jars like mice, close the tops of those jars. Here's the first mouse/voice:

Perfect to Semi-Perfect Housekeeper
Is she that? No, she’s far more malicious then that. She’s the woman who does everything, keeps everything clean and orderly, everywhere and makes everything and never loses energy. She sleeps only at night and only for six hours and then leaps up again for the next day. She knits, embroiders, quilts, sews clothes, sews curtains, shopping never fatigues her, she plans out three square meals a day and always knows how to have a good time. She does regular deep room cleaning and never thinks she won’t. She gardens, visits the Arboretum weekly and keeps up on the latest tv shows. She reads male and female authors, takes notes on everything she’s read and answers emails promptly. She never forgets what she’s said or what she’s promised. She’s frugal, shops sales, buys all her furniture on sale. She knows when to get rid of clothes and when to keep them. She works out every other day. She has no problem with space and always knows how to relax. She’s cheerful, thinks out deep questions without terrible inward strife and goes to the midwife without hatred in her heart for the medical profession’s treatment of women. She is diplomatic, can handle anyone and never gets tired from droners, bores or selfish people. She is immune to fatigue and depression and has never thought of ridding the world of her person. She has a church, a community and researches the Bible on her own, each day.
She also writes at least one poem each day and works on her novel and at least an essay for part of the day. She bakes cookies and visits her neighbors, crooning over their small children. She always gets a good haircut and takes regular walks by the river, being sure sometimes, to bring the camera along.
She visits Chicago from time to time and keeps up on museum exhibits, symphony schedules and other interesting art-community events. She knows enough people to keep her friends meeting other friends of hers and she’s a great matchmaker and everyone loves that. She’s eaten at all the good restaurants around and can afford to do that because she’s frugal in other areas. She goes on vacation at least once a year and once again, she does this because she knows when and how to save. She watches her investments, she has investments, she earns money off of money.
She knows exactly where her dream home will be and saves towards that too. She knows what German appliances that are safe for the enviroment she needs for her home to be and when the time comes, will get them on sale or on deep discount. She knows how to take care of all sorts of animals and she knows how to harvest and dry vegetables and herbs. She also knows how to can. She also knows the best places for fresh produce and fresh meat. Her pantry is incredible in its organization and common sense. She could live in the wild if forced to. She knows natural resources and what can be eaten and what can’t. She recognizes trees, wild flowers, bushes, birds, she knows always which way is north, south, east and west.

And so, I now know that I like Virginia Woolf, have an Angel in the House. How I hate her. How she hates me. I can never be that woman, try as I might. Because I have tried and am trying. Oh, how we hate one another. We’re locked in this endless battle, one trying to strangle the other…or brain sabotage the other. Tricks, sneering, slapping, mind games, manipulation, and just plain stomping on the other. Nothing works.

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Winter in the Time of Climate Change

There is a stream near my home and I walk along it nearly every day; I know its moods and seasons nearly as well as I know my own. We are family and our connections are pure: we’re both made of water.

Every day brings more distressing news about the environment. Big changes need to happen but whatever change that does happen is so slow. Global warming is now being felt by everyone, some more than others. I go out and walk along the stream when the news and all the unfortunate future unknowns press in too hard. Right now, it is running fast. This winter has been a series of freezes and thaws. November hit hard with a heavy, deep freeze and I expected this to lead to a  white Christmas but instead, it’s been a muddy, wet winter, full of more temperate days than frosty ones. The thermometer rides up and down, every day propelled by a bouncing ball rather than a steady progression of tiny fluctuations.

The stream locks and then unlocks. It accepts each freeze and thaw with inestimable grace. After reading the news, it is hard to know what is near or far, here and up in the sky, in the mind or in the present moment. But the stream is always present, it knows no other moment. It lives in eternity; as David Hockney said, “It’s always now. It’s now that’s eternal.”

The creek is still here, I think to myself whenever I see it, it is still living. It runs forward through this strange January, sometimes under the ice and sometimes not. Patches of green moss dot the banks nearby, beyond that the nearby plants are broken, brown, and dried. They are asleep, listening to things I cannot hear, dreaming of things I barely know of.

The Tale of Genji: A Timeless Novel of Messy Relationships

“Real things in the darkness seem no realer than dreams.”

Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji

I read through The Tale of Genji (源氏物語 Genji monogatari) by Murasaki Shikibu over the course of the summer and autumn, and I finally finished last week. I’d read it in the early morning with my first cup of tea and cat in my lap. The cat becomes upset and depressed if I don’t hold her for a little while in the morning so it was a good fit to settle in and read as much as I could from the 1200 page novel before moving into the rest of the day, accompanied by one happy cat. Now when I get up, blearily make myself a pot of tea and settle down, it’s a strange sensation not to reach out for the massive, multi-generational novel.

Set during the 11th century in Ancient Japan, The Tale of Genji spans three generations and is loaded with all sorts of characters, locations, and religious observances. It deals with the relationships between people, nature, the arts, and the gods. Emotions are celebrated in waka poetry, seasonal changes are closely noted and cherished, religious observations of Buddhism and Shintoism dominate daily life, and people’s lives change due to the current Emperor in power. At the center is the story of Hikaru Genji (Shining Genji) and later on in the novel, his descendants. Despite having a father as Emperor, his mother was a low-ranking consort and as such, he has commoner status– but for all that, lives a wealthy, fabulous life. Added on top of this is his intense, near-otherworldly beauty and grace, acknowledged by both men and women. Loaded with money and charm, he seduces and sleeps with many. Hundreds of pages are devoted to his thoughts and feelings on his lovers (to whom he sends piles of poetry and presents) and in turn, the thoughts and feelings of his lovers are revealed privately to the reader. Nearly every woman who comes in contact with him (and a few men) has deeply conflicted feelings about Genji and his behavior.

Noble women’s lives in the Heian Era are so delicately arranged that any mere whim of Genji’s can affect their futures deeply. The women live entirely at home, tucked into the deep recesses of their houses. They rarely even stand—though if a noblewoman does get up and walk, life is about to get spicy. To express their sadness and depression over Genji’s cavalier behavior, they watch the seasons change through a veil of tears, lie face down on the floor, refuse to talk to him, or can’t stop sending him messages. Whatever their behavior, they ultimately have accept his treatment of them. It is not an easy path to walk. They find consolation in the surrounding world: by reading, writing, playing music, observing the seasons, flowers, and birds, caring for their children, and talking to other women.

Seasons, religious observances, and rulers flow by and the main characters change too, from Genji and all the people surrounding him, to his grandsons and the women they love. There is a possibility that different author wrote the story of the grandsons, Kaoru and Niou. The style is different, somewhat smoother, and the characters’ thoughts and motives are revealed in more depth. I like to think that it was Shikibu’s work, a return to her great story after many decades of refining her craft.

“The world know it not; but you, Autumn, I confess it: your wind at night-fall stabs deep into my heart.”
Murasaki Shikibu, The Tale of Genji

The final third of the book centers on a succession of autumns, and a melancholy light flickers through the last few hundred pages. Genji is remembered but in passing—little of him is left except for his great house and his descendants. Kaoru, Niou, and three sisters that they love are on center stage. Genji’s grandchildren live in much the same way he did and though their personalities are different, their lives are just as fleeting and as frail. People make many of the same choices as the previous generation; the circle of life wheels around and around as the seasons flash by. The story has no neat conclusion: the book ends abruptly with protagonists still navigating their lives and affairs. I imagine Kaoru, Niou, and Ukifume out there in another dimension or time, wrestling with their lives, emotions, and circumstances, trying to make do with the choices available to them.

The Tale of Genji is an immersion into another life and era; it is an ancient gift that has survived for nearly a millennium. It is a book of shadows and barriers, a world that exists in lamplight.

“In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away the useless decoration. I do not ask that this be done everywhere, but perhaps we may be allowed at least one mansion where we can turn off the electric lights and see what it is like without them.”

Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, In Praise of Shadows

It is miracle that so massive a book, copied out by hand year after year, decade after decade, century after century, then at last into print, should survive into the modern era. Due to its venerable age and old language, many translations of The Tale of Genji have been written: Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s in Japanese and Edward Seidensticker’s in English are among the most well-known. I read Royall Tyler’s translation, occasionally dipping into Arthur Waley’s and Seidensticker’s earlier ones. What comes through strongly, regardless of the translation, is how incredibly easy The Tale of Genji is to read despite being nearly 1000 years old. Part of this is Shikibu’s very modern skill of weaving plot points in and out of characters’ motivations and thoughts. Shifting narrative perspectives and stream of consciousness prose both play a part; but an even bigger contributor to the story’s strength is its centering of relationships. If readers love anything, it’s hot, messy love affairs, tangled family and friendships, and all the accompanying emotions that go with them. Genji, full of tumult, even ghosts and possessions, is ultimately about human nature and all the triumphs, frailties, and failures that come with it.