ひさしぶりです！ – that’s the Japanese way of saying long-time-no-see. Last time I posted it was winter, and now spring is here, though its going by fast. The whole caucus of humanity is involved in planing for the summer. This includes all the new ‘adults’ that are being pushed out of the academic setting that they have lived in for most of their life. It’s a strange time of transistion – don’t worry, I’m not going to start talking about butterflies. In fact, I’m not going to talk about transitions either. This is more like turning a page, starting a new chapter, diving into the sequel because you loved the first book so much. Same universe, different plot. In the midst of discovering that plot, An act which I have to remind myself is all part of what makes stories so much fun, I have no desire to completely abandon the last few years of my life. The best sequels build upon what has already been established. So I’m starting on a book list for the summer. I guess I’ll start out three parts fiction, one part philosophical, one part history – I’ve missed reading for readings sake. Eventually I hope to cull the fiction down to two parts. Since good fiction can also be philosophical or historical I don’t think this is going to hurt my intellctual development any. Any suggestions would be appreciated. To keep up the art of essay writing I hope to do quasi reveiws of these books – not real ones, because I can’t write a good review  and at this point have no desire to learn.  Knitting should progress soon to, in a few days actually, with sewing close behind it. And then there will be the obligatory travel documentary, which I’m really looking forward to. I think my mom is bringing her laptop on our summer vacation, so I’ll have no excuse not to post ( not to mention I’ll be trapped happily spending the majority of my vacation time inside a moving vehicle). I’m hoping to make Fridays (and maybe Tuesdays) blogging days – this should be enough of an incentive for me to actually do something with this free time I’ve been blessed with. Anyway, that’s the plan. The future, I’ve decided, is like a really good molten chocolate cake – beautiful to look at, and best enjoyed in small quanties. Bon Appetite! 

I went to the bookstore today and become one of those people. The ones who sit in coffee shops and drink lattes and giggle with their friends over socially accepted classics. Because I hadn’t finished the book we were discussing, The Time Machine by H.G. Wells, I arrived early to catch up. The end result was that my latte was consumed in a solitude that encouraged random musings.

                               Since I was already in a coffee shop attached to a bookstore, reading a classic, and since I wasn’t eating sushi, I figured that the only thing to order was a Matcha, or green tea, Latte. And since I was alone, and had finished the book (it’s only about sixty-nine pages), I sat there soaking in the atmosphere of cultivated class and thinking about my memories of matcha. I’ve had the extreme honor of witnessing a Japanese tea ceremony, and I even got a chance to try my hand at it. It is one of the most elegant things in the world. I remember kneeling on the tatami mat floor of the tea master’s house. She had assured us that if our legs got tired it would be okay to fold them next to us instead of sitting on them, but the group I was with bravely ventured forth, ignoring the protest of our limbs. The apprentice came out and I remember that she was dressed like any business woman in a knee length pencil black skirt ensemble. She prepared the tea before us, and we drank it. But first she had to kneel, and I’ll never forget watching her lower herself to her knees, making sure to keep her skirt smooth, balancing on her toes until her knees touched the woven floor, and then letting her feet fold into each other under her. When she got up later she replayed it all in reverse: rising to the balls of her feet, standing, and sitting the heels back down. One fluid motion. Elegance. 

                                       Watching her make the tea was like that too. The word ceremony is not merely a nod to the history of the thing, or the art of the affair, but to the whole atmosphere of decided precision. Every move of the arm had been practiced, even down to the scooping of the green powder into the cups. And there were the formal responses we were instructed to utter on receiving the cups, and the way  we tried to copy her intentional movements as we turned the cups around to face forward – a hard task, as the glazed pottery cups, bowl like in size  and shape, had no distinctive pattern on them to tell us uninitiated where the front was. 

                                   Matcha is green, and bitter. Due to the method of whisking, done with a little bamboo whisk, there is a surprising amount of froth on top, almost as if it were a latte. The smell is the worst part of it, but its looks aren’t entirely inviting either. Many people refer to it as pond scum, and I couldn’t help but smile at the accuracy of that statement when I looked at the green contents of my latte this morning. I’ve had traditional Matcha only two or three time, but I could only find one picture of it. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t taken by me either. The latte is definitely sweeter, creamier, and more subtle than the traditional. There is no call to gulp it down as fast as possible, or to hold your breath while swallowing. The dregs are not as shocking to the taste buds, and there is no cause for the cloyingly sweet little treats that are usually part of the matcha ceremony. But of course, there is also very little of the enchanting mystique that surrounds the foamy tea. Even the mysterious knowledge of the Starbucks staff cannot compete with the wisdom of the tea master as she deftly measures the water out with a little bamboo ladle, running her hand down it smoothly, returning it again to its ordained spot with a manner that suggests that failure to do so would cause the tea to curdle, the sky to darken, and all of man kind to fall of the face of the Earth.  

 

 

 

Have you ever driven across a one-lane wooden bridge?

 

Despite the obviously unnatural amount of snow that has landed on our doorstop since Friday, life goes on. Busy, of course, and seemingly unfruitful. Rather like a garden, I suppose, where one spends all that time sowing with no results, and then suddenly….. Spring! (And then you have to wait another bundle of months before you can harvest any fruit, but at least you can see it growing).  Anyway, Just wanted to spread some snowy cheer to everyone. They say there’s going to be another storm this weekend, so go buy your hot chocolate and marshmellows now.

I am here again, in this home-that-will–not-be-called-so, but my heart does not use words to name things and so is not troubled with the restrictions of the English language. Before I left, two or three days ago now, I finished Forever Hero, another Sci-fi book. Don’t worry, I won’t open that discussion again, not today. I will instead talk in pictures, in hopes that you, too, will somehow feel the peace that has been all around me.

“It is a vale whose acquaintance is best made by viewing it from the summit of the hills that surround it…. An unguided ramble into its recesses is apt to engender dissatisfaction with its narrow, torturous, and miry ways.”                      — Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Ubervilles

It takes a contrived sort of reasoning to decide to “write up” both The Good Earth and Tess of the D’Ubervilles in the same post. In one sense I had the same recaction to both of them: they were wells of sadness that dwelled deeper than my comprehension; they were filled with strange custoums and assumptions,  many of which I still cannot grasp; they were are also both about nature (in the environmental sense), but in almost completely opposite ways. In Pearl Buck’s book nature is a constant, dependable source of life. In Thomas Hardy’s book nature reflects what is going on inside the different chacters. It is not good or bad, or always the same, it’s as Tess or Angels sees it. Comforting or cold, harsh or heartening – it all depends on what what’s going on inside the character’s mind.

The Good Earth chronicled the life and fortune of one Wang Lung, a poor chinese peasant. It starts with his procuring of a wife from the kitchens of the great house and ends with his death as the wealthy owner of the same. Wang Lung is neither amazingly smart nor touchingly compassionate – he’s just a normal guy. His experiences, most of them bad, repeatedly teach him that land is the most important thing. The most amazing character is probably O-lan, Wang’s first wife, who grew up as a slave until Wang paid her dowry. O-lan does not do much talking, so it’s hard for a reader to feel close to her, but she does an immense amount of work and is a clever housekeeper. The book offers very little to laugh at, but one of the amusing things that does occur comes from the brain of O-lan. When Wang Lung worries that his gangster uncle will eat them out of house and home, O-lan proposes that they drug him with opium, and so that’s what they do. It’s kind of bizarre to imagine opium being used to rid yourself of troublesome relatives.
Anyway, the book is pretty sad, as I hinted above. Wang Lung has a hard life when he’s young, is a bad husband when he gets rich, and has a horrible relationship with his three sons. I enjoyed learning about chinese culture, and the way that Pearl Buck hints at the cyclical nature of wealth was interesting, but after Wang stopped being poor I couldn’t bring myself to care for the characters enough to wonder how the book would end.

                                      Tess of the D’Ubervilles took some strength of will to get through too. At first this was just because of Hardy’s constant jabs at God. They were pretty subtle – or maybe I’m just dense – but nothing could hide his resentment when he made them, so that even though I didn’t pick up on his object right away I could tell he was lambasting someone. And then there was his descriptions of Tess. I hope I’m not so jealous that I can’t stand to read about a pretty girl, but come on. In order to defend her “innocence” Hardy felt the need to bring in proof of her overwhelming beauty every other page (as a side note, Tess’ beauty is the element of fate that should warn you this is a tragedy in the greek sense). This was especially true when she was at the dairy and falling in love with Angel Clare (here high literature meets Buffy and shies away). Don’t even get me started on Angel Clare, actually, don’t get me started on Tess. The former was awful, but the latter was annoying. I didn’t know what to make of her half the time. Sometimes I think I could hardly have made different choices than she did, but then I find myself scoffing at this notion. I’m sure someone else has already said this, but I’m glad that I have read so many sad and depressing novels so that if I’m ever in a bad situation I’ll know exactly what not to do.
As fun as Tess is to complain about, and as painful as the plot was to read, I enjoyed reading most of it. The style was delicious, the scenery was beautiful, and the secondary characters were worth knowing. I particularly liked the dairyman “to whose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was a good beverage.” What really made the book worth it though was discussing it. I spent two weeks talking about it, and hearing other’s opinions of it, and watching a movie adaptation, and so on. Some interesting things turned up, like the rocks that come to light when you plow I suppose. Like how, despite Hardy’s prejudice against Christianity, Angels parents are both christians and kind, honest people. Or how about how Angel, regardless of his “progressive” and openly “pagan” outlook reacts so negatively to Tess’ admission of the past. These things make you wonder what Hardy was thinking when he wrote this book. Or if he even knew what he was thinking at all. In the end I’d recommend it, but only if you have a group of people to talk it over with.

There, that’s two books down. Now I’m going to enjoy the inch of snow that fell last night, and wallow in the peaceful emptiness of my last week of vacation. I hope you have peace to wallow in too,

Sincerely,
Ms. B.