Asakiyume mita

I thought I'd translate the blurb of the original Japanese edition of The Memory Police, originally titled, 密やかな結晶 (hisoyaka na kesshō; The Hidden Crystal/The Secret Crystal), to show how the story was pitched when originally published, in its original language. Wakanomori checked it over and offered some good corrections.

『妊娠カレンダー』の芥川賞作家が澄明 に描く人間の哀しみ。記憶狩りによって消滅 が静かにすすむ島の生活。人は何をなくしたのかさえ思い出せない。何かをなくした小説ばかり書いているわたしも、言葉を、自分自身を確実に失っていった。有機物であることの人間の哀しみを澄んだまなざしで見つめ、現代の消滅、空無への願望を、美しく危険な情況の中で描く傑作長編

Human sadness, clearly portrayed by the Akutagawa Prize–winning author of Ninshin Karenda– [English-language edition title: Pregnancy Diary]. Daily life on an island where extinguishment peacefully advances through the harvesting of memories. People can't even remember what it is they've lost. The protagonist, who does nothing but write novels, is definitely losing her words and her very self. This masterwork casts its clear gaze on the sadness of human beings, who are mortal, and beautifully portrays the extinctions of the present age and the longing for nonbeing in dangerous circumstances.

... The translation is still pretty stilted. But you get the idea. "Dangerous" is the only word that even hints at the memory police!

Whereas, here's the tagline on the English-language book:

A haunting Orwellian novel about the terrors of state surveillance

Here's the back cover copy:

On an unnamed island off an unnamed coast, objects are disappearing: first hats, then ribbons, birds, roses—until things become much more serious. Most of the island's inhabitants are oblivious to these changes, while those few imbued with the power to recall the lost objects live in fear of the draconian Memory Police, who are committed to ensuring that what has disappeared remains forgotten.

When a young woman who is struggling to maintain her career as a novelist discovers that her editor is in danger from the Memory Police, she concocts a plan to hide him beneath her floorboards. As fear and loss close in around them, they cling to her writing as the last way of preserving the past.

A surreal, provocative fable about the power of memory and the trauma of loss, The Memory Police is a stunning new work from one of the most exciting contemporary authors writing in any language.

To be fair, that last paragraph gets at more of what the book's like. But as troisoiseaux points out, if you go into the novel expecting "An Orwellian novel about the terrors of state surveillance," you will likely be at the very least confused.

I decided to buy some street-art-quality chalks and see how long they last (answer: not long! This would be an expensive hobby...)

And I drew this...



The nice thing about chalk art is you can keep on tinkering with it. I might add more red to the face.

I also ended up decorating my jeans:



The healing angel and her significant other are living across our household and the significant other's household (yes: we know--we consider ourselves all one infection/virus family), and yesterday evening they were over, and we all watched Frozen II together, which was relaxing. I enjoyed seeing the sisters' different hairstyles, and the songs were fun. The plot was a little lurchy, but it seemed like it advanced both sisters further along good-for-them trajectories and that it gave young fans more of what they liked.

Then the healing angel and her significant other retired to the healing angel's room, and Waka and I watched the Easter vigil streamed from our church. In addition to the priest, there was a cantor and some readers--the cantor sang the Exsultet, which gladdened my heart.

Wakanomori introduced me to the Japanese legend of the amabie. Here's what Wikipedia says about it:

Amabie (アマビエ) is a legendary Japanese mermaid or merman with 3 legs, who allegedly emerges from the sea and prophesies either an abundant harvest or an epidemic ... An amabie appeared in Higo Province (Kumamoto Prefecture) according to legend, around the middle of the fourth month, in the year Kōka-3 (mid-May, 1846) in the Edo era. A glowing object had been spotted in the sea, almost on a nightly basis. The town's official went to the coast to investigate, and witnessed the amabie. According to the sketch made by this official, it had long hair, a mouth like bird's bill, was covered in scales from the neck down, and three-legged. Addressing the official, it identified itself as an amabie and told him that it lived in the open sea. It went on to deliver a prophecy: "Good harvest will continue for six years from the current year; if disease spreads, show a picture of me to those who fall ill and they will be cured." Afterward, it returned to the sea. The story was printed in the kawaraban (woodblock-printed bulletins), where its portrait was printed, and this is how the story disseminated in Japan.

Here's what that first picture looked like (to me like something a kid would draw in their notebook):



The blog Spoon and Tamago shares several amabie images. Here are two:

By freelance illustrator Sunsuke Sataka:


By manga artist Keiichi Tanaka:


And there are a wealth of people sharing them these days on Twitter:

by Twitter user AutumnWyvern:



by Twitter user Bnmloiu



by Twitter user Mr_ROB0TO



Who else would like to draw the amabie? I'd like to give it a whirl.

I heard a quote last week from Lynn Margulis, of Gaia Theory fame: "Life is matter that chooses." My immediate reaction was that I liked it ... but then I started having doubts. It's appealing, but what does "choose" mean? If a single-celled organism moves toward light or engulfs a food particle or away from a predator, is that a choice? In what sense is it a choice? How is it different from a shadow's movement across the ground in response to the movement of the sun earth around the sun? For that matter, how is it different from the earth's own movement, or the sun's? Or if those things are too physical, then how is the single-celled organism's action more choice-y than a chemical reaction like rust forming on metal?

Maybe I'm too pedestrian a thinker in this case, but to me choice involves weighing alternatives, and while some things that are alive do weigh alternatives, I think it's a stretch to say all living things do, so I don't think this formulation really can be used to define life.

Completely unrelatedly, it hit me at 5:45 this morning that there's a good reason that various flavors of Christianity (maybe all of them?) tell people to imitate Jesus and not God, and it has entirely to do with the fact that on the face of things Jesus was just a person walking around doing person things--despite the central tenet of the faith that emphatically says we have to erase the "just" from the previous clause. You could say imitate the Dalai Lama or Nelson Mandela or Greta Thunberg or anyone else who's admired, and the effect is the same--you're picking a fellow human who's setting a good example for you in some way. But if you decide to imitate God/a divinity, then you and those around you are in for a world of trouble. (I mean, possibly you'll/they'll be in for that anyway, depending on the human you decide to choose as your model, but it's a guarantee if you take it into your head to imitate a deity.)

Last, a couple of pictures. I probably (most assuredly) won't do all of Inktober, but here's Day 1: "ring"



And here is some pointful stencil graffiti from Keene, NH, where we were this past weekend because Wakanomori was running a marathon

Welcome to the new era in Japan: Reiwa.

During the modern period--that is, ever since the Meiji Restoration of 1868--the eras have corresponded to the reigns of the emperor. That is, the Meiji Period equated to the Meiji emperor's** reign, the Taisho period corresponded to the Taisho emperor's reign, the Shōwa period corresponded to the reign of the Shōwa emperor--better known to people outside Japan as Emperor Hirohito--and it has been the Heisei period ever since Akihito, Hirohito's son, became emperor. Akihito is going to abdicate on April 30, and today, a new era name was introduced, Reiwa: 令和. On a character level, "Rei" means "proclamation," "law," "order" and "Wa" means "harmony," "peace," and also "Japan." The first character makes some people uneasy--all that law'n'order-ness of it. But the source material from which the name was taken is an ancient poem from a flower-viewing party, and in that context, the "rei" refers to the month of the party and the "wa" to the peaceful breezes. On Twitter, Wakanomori quoted Edwin Cranston's translation of the relevant lines:

It is now the *choice* month 令月of early spring: the weather is fine, the wind is *soft* 風和ぐ。The plum blossoms open--powder before a mirror; the orchids exhale--fragrance after a sachet.

[Translation by Edwin Cranston, from The Gem-Glistening Cup, 1993]

In Japan, these era names are used *a lot*--on official forms, etc. So I know, for instance, what year of the Shōwa period I was born in as automatically as I know what year of the so-called Common Era I was born in. My kids all date to the Heisei era--this will be their first new era. My grandmother lived in all the eras from Meiji on--this is the first one she's not alive for.

Anyway, for those looking for a new start--here's one!

ETA: Funny addendum from Twitter, courtesy of Amy Stanley, a professor of Japanese History at Northwestern (link to first tweet here):

In some sense Reiwa is a perfect name for this era, because ordinary people look at it like, “huh, maybe this is a little authoritarian?” And then experts rush in with a very complicated reading and assure us it’s all fine and we misunderstood.

It is the “but actually” of era names.

For reasons that would make a good story, which I will tell any of you if I see you in person, but which I won't go into here, we made a journey to Canada yesterday.

That is a long trip for a day trip, may I just say, but anyway. We encountered some interesting people along the way.

The Leaf Lady

She was from England. We encountered her at a a rest stop and information center on the interstate in Vermont. She was here, apparently, for the foliage, which is looking pretty magnificent in northern Vermont right now, but my phone got itself in a tizzy trying to update operating systems, so NO PHOTOS.

Leaf Lady: Excuse me, where are the leaves?

Visitor Center Staff Person: There's a board out front that tracks the foliage. It's best in the Northeast Kingdom right now.

Leaf Lady: All right. How far is it to Kingdom?

VCSP: You're entering it now.

Leaf Lady: And so I'll see leaves?

VCSP: Well, it's overcast today, so it may not seem as impressive, but yes.

Us, mentally: THERE ARE BEAUTIFUL LEAVES LITERALLY ALL AROUND YOU.

We made up a story that one of her children, who likes mountain biking and free running and recaning old chairs and making cheese, came to the United States and married a Vermonter and wanted her to see this beautiful place, but the mom is very suburban and didn't really want to come and this is her passive-aggressive resistance.

That center had a school parent-teacher group raising money by offering fresh coffee and baked goods fro a donation. Excellent.

The anti-tourism border guard

We crossed into Canada at a very small crossing point. There were no other cars on the road, and only one border guard, a young woman in her twenties.

Border Guard: And what is the purpose of your trip to Canada today?

Thanks to Wakanomori's research, we had a good answer to this question.

Wakanomori: We're going to see the museum in Coaticook.

Or was it a good answer

Border Guard (incredulous): No one goes to see the museum in Coaticook!

Wakanomori (laughing): Uh, well, we are.

Me (piping up from the passenger's seat): It's a holiday in the United States.

Border Guard: It is here, too: Thanksgiving.

Me: Hmmm. I wonder if the museum will be open, then...

Border Guard: And where are you from again? Massachusetts? And you're coming up just to see the museum?

Wakanomori: It's a long story.

Border Guard: I have all day!

Wakanomori then told her the story of how he and the older kids had biked this route to Canada years ago, and how he'd noticed about the museum then, and....

Border Guard: I see--so you're retracing your steps! Well, enjoy yourself. Maybe you can get some honey or cheese!

Interestingly, we saw a place selling honey a little further along the road--so we could have!

The gas station attendants

These were boys who looked to me like maaaaybe they were 14 or so, but I guess they must have been older? They were full of life and smiles, and they were going to pump our gas! It wasn't a self-serve station. Going to Colombia has emboldened me in languages that I'm not fluent in, so I tried out my rusty, rusty French: "Avez vous une salle de bain?" And he answered me in French and pointed out where the bathroom was! 通じた！(This handy word means literally, it passed through and more accurately, I made myself understood. THE BEST FEELING)

The man at the museum
The museum had a definite shut vibe to it, though there were other people walking the grounds when we got there. We rang the doorbell, as requested by the sign. After a bit a man appeared and told us, politely and with a smile but at length, that he was desolé and that it was un dommage, but the museum was closed. We nodded and thanked him but he kept apologizing, and in that moment all I could think of for "we understand" was 分かりました and entendemos.

The fox spirit
On the grounds of the museum, the healing angel spied a fox. It ran under the museum porch, but then came out again and ran up some stone steps leading up a hill behind the museum. It was very tall for a fox, with long, graceful legs. It stood on the steps halfway up the hill and regarded us, very foxy. Then it ran the out of sight. It was a prince among foxes, a god, a spirit.

Annnd then we came on home, long drive back. Hope you all had a wonderful Indigenous People's Day/Thanksgiving/Monday.

Went on a bike ride with Waka in the sensual hot 'n' humid, where you really feel each patch of shade, like you're diving into cold water, and then into the heat again, and in all these places, so many smells--the smell of baking soil, of flowers and black raspberries and pine needles, also the smell of creosote by the train tracks, and the smell of swampy still water, and here and there the smell of garbage cooking in the sun.

We passed a father having a picnic with his daughter out the shaded door to their ground-floor apartment. There was a blanket: dad was sitting on this, very still--I thought he was meditating at first--and there were many small bowls of things to eat. On the threshold of the door was the daughter, three or four, with wild curly reddish brown hair, not quite ready maybe to be lured out.

This dramatic wildflower turns out to be butterfly weed (Asclepias tuberosa). How pretty!



And on the trip, there was some underpass art...





The other side was a celebration of bees and beekeeping:



Also on the ride, a trailside water tap, where you could get a drink of water, and air pump, in case your tires were low, courtesy of a car dealer; also a scrapyard with the cars almost lost in wildflowers and tall grass.

Song sparrows, catbirds, and swifts were all singing out. At the place we stopped to buy a drink and a bite to eat, the woman behind the counter had a tattoo of utility polls and the swooping wires strung between them, with birds on them.

Wakanomori is providing me with all kinds of interesting items these days. For today, have some cat kanji. It looks made up, doesn't it? But it's a bone fide form of seal script--that is, stylized kanji used for signature seals.　The source is 篆楷字典 (Tenkai Jiten), a dictionary of seal script (tensho) and kaisho, a very clear, blocky style used in inscriptions.

Two posts in one day? Why not!

Wakanomori took me to Holyoke's secret stream, which runs beneath Interstate 91. There's a park there, but these boys preferred the actual stream (so did a chipmunk and an oriole I saw).





At one end of the present-day park is a closed roadway that leads up into an overgrown, abandoned park. If you climb up and up, you reach this tower that looks like it took its design cues from rude graffiti:



You can climb up a literally falling-apart concrete spiral staircase on the inside of the, uh, shaft, and up top there is a glorious view of the surrounding countryside. Which I didn't take a picture of! I was too busy recovering from the hair-raising ascent. Fortunately, Wakanomori took a picture. He also obliged me by taking pictures of the words of wisdom inscribed there, and of some of the community-created artwork at the base of the tower.

View of Mt. Tom in nearby Easthampton



Wisdom



Art

wakanomori and I went on a New Year's walk yesterday, and we saw signs of beavers



And out in the lake was the beaver lodge:



"What do you think it's like on the inside of the beaver lodge?" Wakanomori asked last night, when we were heading to bed.

"Well, I'm sure there's a sewing machine," I said.

More broadly, something like this. Excuse the blurring on the left--I scanned this Pauline Baynes illustration from my copy of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe



Here, courtesy of the University of Vermont, is what it's more likely to look like:



(More pictures here.)

And here's a diagram from liviniginthewetlands.pbworks.com:


... If people lived in beaver lodges, then C.S. Lewis's imagination would be perfect. But for beavers themselves, the lodge as it is is cozy and just right. Imagine beaver stories that conceive of humans as beaver-pomorphized creatures, still living in dry-land houses, yes, but with moats all around them so the humano-beavers can get in swimming, because what kind of life doesn't have swimming, and of course humano-beavers will eat like beaver-beavers, a diet of the soft bits of trees like willows and aspens, as well as water plants like cattails--but not fish. (Sorry, C.S. Lewis; beavers don't fish or eat fish.) Humano-beavers, like beaver-beavers, will, in beaver children's tales, mate for life, and both parents will devotedly raise their offspring.