On these last and coldest days of winter, sharp frosts pull the moisture to the surface of the fields in delicate pillars of ice.
At the same time, the buds on the trees are swelling, and in orchards, gardens, shrines and temples, we can see and smell spring's first pink and white plum blossom.
--Julian
For standing back and looking at your life, illness is as good as a holiday. Perhaps better as the break is not planned. All the activity that normally fills your days is on hold, and can therefore--as you gaze out of the sickroom window--be seen for what it is. Some puts food on the table and the rest is a way to stave off boredom. Although I hold much of it as important, it clearly isn't because in its absence, nothing is lost.
All habits are suspended, and an element of choice is introduced when health is restored. And so I have a chance to choose not to eat incautiously, or to drink immoderately. How much clarity and awareness can I stand?
And in this temporary vacuum when my life is a clean slate again and all is possible, before it fills with new habits and new escapes, the sky looks even bluer than usual.
--Julian
The pathetic fallacy is alive and well. Today dawned with blue sky after a week wet and bleak and unrelenting. As I made the first moves back to ordinary life after a grey week of flu.
It began last Monday with a cough, the classic way for the already resident virus to spread itself. Then two days and nights of high fever as the body amazingly raised its own temperature to kill the invader.
All carefully arranged appointments for the week cancelled. All work put aside.
After 48 hours the fever abated and appetite returned for okayu rice gruel, and potato broth. Another 48 hours and this morning, energy began to return.
I look forward to tomorrow when burgeoning health and bright sunshine continue to spiral in improbable synchronicity.
--Julian
What is greater than the Russians? I'm not so keen on Dostoyvesky, because when I was young, my then main man Nabokov said he was rubbish, and I took on that unthinkingly. I should probably give him a try again. But some prefer blondes, other brunettes. But when there's Gogol, Chekhov, Pushkin, Babel, Lermontov, Turgenev, Grossman too (with Tolstoy, like Shakespeare), then Mandelstam et al...well.
My current favourite, rescued from the garage, is Gould playing Brahms' Ballades. This is something.
Russians: may I recommend, if you don't know: Summer in Baden-Baden by Leonid Tsypkin.
But best of all, what arrived today: The Journal of Jules Renard.
You must get this.
—NC Tate
It's hard to know which New York Times columnist, David Brooks or Thomas Friedman, more consistently pulls columns straight out of his fundament. Matt Taibbi would probably argue for Friedman. See his review of that pundit's latest brain fart here
—David
When we finished ringing the temple bell, it was almost midnight. We jumped on bicycles and headed for nearby Samukawa. Bypassed by the main rail line, it has lost its importance as a town over the last 150 years, but Samukawa Shrine has retained its hold on the affections of the local population who flock to it at New Year from nearby larger towns.
It is a little past midnight and the shrine precincts are already crowded with people. Rather than join the throngs inching forward toward the main building to throw coins as a New Year offering and prayer, we go no further than the main gate where we admire the lantern decoration—this year featuring a cow for by the 12-year cycle of the Chinese Zodiac, 2009 is the year of the cow.
We buy a fortune for 100 yen. Mine is lucky, Masaya's is very lucky. Each includes detailed predictions of health, business, love and other matters for the following year. The narrow paths of the shrine grounds are lined with food stalls offering noodles, pancakes, sweet corn, beer, sweet amazake. Generators whir and under bright lights, vendors bark a welcome to the passing crowds. We buy buttered potatoes and cups of hot sake. After enjoying them on a quiet side street, we ride away through the cold night.
Halfway home, we stop on a country road and climb a flight of steps. In the middle of a silent wood stands a small shrine building. It is deserted, but on this night only, the doors have been opened and the inside is illuminated. We approach, throw our coins into the offertory box, shake the thick rope that hangs down, ringing the bells to summon the gods, clap our hands and pray for the New Year. Then we return to the bicycles and ride home to bed.
--Julian
I once eavesdropped on a man saying the closest he'd actually come to hitting a woman was during a read through of Old Times, when his student frustration at his then girlfriend's seeming inability to add anything like emotion or understanding to the role of Anna (while Hugh, his then best friend, read Kate) caused him to leave the room, after throwing down the text, and wander along the short, narrow corridor until he smiled, recalling Robert Newton, Long John Silver when he was a boy - and naturally he had no idea then he'd outlive Newton by at least three years, at the current count.
—NC Tate
