Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Works
Six months ago, I got into the habit of losing my mind. No day passed without some evidence of madness: depression, compulsion, mania, panic. Nothing helped--least of all the gray city where I live. One morning while reading this book, I felt my mind click back into place and I knew I would be all right. Since then, the Essays have been, for me, a touchstone of sanity. There is something about their boundaryless curiosity, their open admission of human frailty and mess, that pulls me back every time. It's a book of ideas that never forgets about blood, sweat and semen. Every day I sit with it there is some useful treasure. Today I was grateful to be reminded, "It is not victory if it does not end the war."
Or how about: "No quality embraces us purely and universally. If it did not seem crazy to talk to oneself, there is not a day I would not be heard growling at myself, 'Confounded fool!' And yet I do not intend for that to be my definition."
I distrust Montaigne's opinions on women and God--but to be right about mankind and life on Earth is a lot. As heavy as it is, this big book is always in my bag. Spend some time with it--it will help you stay sane.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Family Travel 12, illustration by Akemi Shinohara
Read Family Travel
(please click to the second page and begin with Family Travel / 1)
Willow: a small true story
When he was fourteeen he went skinny-dipping at the farm pond, guarded by an enormous willow tree, whose delicate green branches reached almost to the surface of water which was as warm and dark as coffee.
As warm as the water was on top, his feet kicked up a chill, which rose to nuzzle him under the balls and, though he liked to be naked in the water more than anything, he always kept moving and thrashing for fear a small mouth bass might dart up and nip the tip of his dick off.
Better to be careful. So he swam on his back and admired the tree. The willow, he was convinced, was an extremely important personage. In charge of the farm at least and possibly much of the state of New Hampshire. The willow told him its secret name. And, unlike a ruling man, the willow was generous and never in a hurry.
He believed this the way fourteen year old American boys believe, in a small room in their brains, a small room surrounded by scorn, but in that small room still believing.
Eventually the boy tugged his pants on, grew a beard, and became disappointed. The willow, meanwhile, became increasingly active and involved on the local level, hosting barbecues and church events, presiding over the ceremonies of Eagle Scouts.
The young man worked in cities where he could step outside and not see a single thing that was green or alive and the only thing not covered in cement was the Moon.
The young man was careful: he thought, contemplated, considered, weighed all the options, and over and over again, he chose wrong.
The willow began to officiate at weddings. Meetings were held beneath the tree and it was often on the news, shown with local and state politicians and dignitaries. Sometimes, at home in his gray city, the young man even caught the willow on TV. As the tallest member of the assembled party, the tree stood in back but there was no question that it was the power in charge, with its dark curving trunk and its sensitive leaves.
The young man was cautious and reasonable. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He did not distinguish himself or destroy himself. He did not become happy.
He was stunned the day a flyer reached him in the mail, showing the willow tree and a certain junior senator who was running for president and might, to everyone’s astonishment, actually win.
The photo, he supposed, was a sort of endorsement, on the force of which this young senator might attain the presidency.
In his gray city the man who was no longer young understood. He’d been careful and still he’d been wrong. He had been a reasonable man: he moved cautiously from one disappointment to the next.
He was wrong about everything, he saw now, except for his most childish, absurd, and ridiculous notions, none of which would ever do him any good, but which had turned out, in some astonishing way, to be absolutely correct.
As warm as the water was on top, his feet kicked up a chill, which rose to nuzzle him under the balls and, though he liked to be naked in the water more than anything, he always kept moving and thrashing for fear a small mouth bass might dart up and nip the tip of his dick off.
Better to be careful. So he swam on his back and admired the tree. The willow, he was convinced, was an extremely important personage. In charge of the farm at least and possibly much of the state of New Hampshire. The willow told him its secret name. And, unlike a ruling man, the willow was generous and never in a hurry.
He believed this the way fourteen year old American boys believe, in a small room in their brains, a small room surrounded by scorn, but in that small room still believing.
Eventually the boy tugged his pants on, grew a beard, and became disappointed. The willow, meanwhile, became increasingly active and involved on the local level, hosting barbecues and church events, presiding over the ceremonies of Eagle Scouts.
The young man worked in cities where he could step outside and not see a single thing that was green or alive and the only thing not covered in cement was the Moon.
The young man was careful: he thought, contemplated, considered, weighed all the options, and over and over again, he chose wrong.
The willow began to officiate at weddings. Meetings were held beneath the tree and it was often on the news, shown with local and state politicians and dignitaries. Sometimes, at home in his gray city, the young man even caught the willow on TV. As the tallest member of the assembled party, the tree stood in back but there was no question that it was the power in charge, with its dark curving trunk and its sensitive leaves.
The young man was cautious and reasonable. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He did not distinguish himself or destroy himself. He did not become happy.
He was stunned the day a flyer reached him in the mail, showing the willow tree and a certain junior senator who was running for president and might, to everyone’s astonishment, actually win.
The photo, he supposed, was a sort of endorsement, on the force of which this young senator might attain the presidency.
In his gray city the man who was no longer young understood. He’d been careful and still he’d been wrong. He had been a reasonable man: he moved cautiously from one disappointment to the next.
He was wrong about everything, he saw now, except for his most childish, absurd, and ridiculous notions, none of which would ever do him any good, but which had turned out, in some astonishing way, to be absolutely correct.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Owl.
The Prizes for Turning 100
Within the 23 wards of Tokyo, a small prize is offered to residents aged 100. Of course this is not such an uncommon occurrence anymore, and so there is a system, a pre-printed letter and full-color pamphlet mailed to residents aged 99.
Residents aged 99 may choose from the following:
a) a gold vest
b) a gold cushion
c) a vase
d) a statue of an owl
Nanako admitted that her mother didn’t really like any of the choices but, since there wasn’t a box for saying ‘I am 99 and have all the presents I need, thank you’, both mother and daughter considered that a vase was the least of evils.
(To tell the truth, Nanako’s mother did express some curiosity about the owl statue, but acquiesced readily enough when Nanako gently directed her otherwise.)
Unfortunately, Nanako’s mother died shortly thereafter, a few months shy of her 100th birthday. Nanako wondered if she ought to write to the city, but never got around to it.
Nonetheless, she soon received a letter from the municipal offices informing her that the city had learned of her mother’s death (and therefore sent its most heartfelt condolences in this time of grief) and notice that the prize must, regrettably, be cancelled.
Sorry, no vase. The city, the letter admitted, could not afford to send prizes to survivors of residents aged only 99 and a half.
Within the 23 wards of Tokyo, a small prize is offered to residents aged 100. Of course this is not such an uncommon occurrence anymore, and so there is a system, a pre-printed letter and full-color pamphlet mailed to residents aged 99.
Residents aged 99 may choose from the following:
a) a gold vest
b) a gold cushion
c) a vase
d) a statue of an owl
Nanako admitted that her mother didn’t really like any of the choices but, since there wasn’t a box for saying ‘I am 99 and have all the presents I need, thank you’, both mother and daughter considered that a vase was the least of evils.
(To tell the truth, Nanako’s mother did express some curiosity about the owl statue, but acquiesced readily enough when Nanako gently directed her otherwise.)
Unfortunately, Nanako’s mother died shortly thereafter, a few months shy of her 100th birthday. Nanako wondered if she ought to write to the city, but never got around to it.
Nonetheless, she soon received a letter from the municipal offices informing her that the city had learned of her mother’s death (and therefore sent its most heartfelt condolences in this time of grief) and notice that the prize must, regrettably, be cancelled.
Sorry, no vase. The city, the letter admitted, could not afford to send prizes to survivors of residents aged only 99 and a half.
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