Zuihitsu Excerpts
Zuihitsu is a genre of Japanese literature consisting of loosely connected personal essays and fragmented ideas that typically respond to the author's surroundings. I experimented with this genre in one of my English classes in Fall of 2022, and this is what resulted.
Things you shouldn’t believe– That a well-dressed man holds authority. That his beguiling tones and casually pristine articulation can be confused for wisdom. That your doubts give you reason to lose confidence. That your unsureness is not a sign of maturity.
You will talk over organically sourced eggs with a man whose gaze never averts and speech never quivers, who shakes your hand firmly and talks until the coffee is cold about his great plans and aspirations, until your mind settles on your contrastingly unorganized storm of running sentences and thought-fragments. Do not wonder if their lack of composure is unintelligent. Do not trick yourself into believing that his certainty ensures stability. Do not question if your capacity to imagine the future must dictate it.
Never believe he is better than you. You, with your indecisive mind and sleep-worn eyes. With your Cumulus dreams and untied shoes. You, Ms. Nowhere, with the mind that he will always secretly envy.
Secret ways to say I love you– Take me to the pumpkin patch on the onset of the tenth month, when the bluebirds pepper the sunsets in cursive lines. Offer me an overpriced apple cider with the crumpled bill in your pocket and we’ll dance in between Johnathon trees. Listen to the corn husks rattle and squeeze my hand in the silence to remind me you’re there. You mourn the foretaste of winter with its shortened days and clouded horizons, but I don’t. So today you don’t either.
Drive me through the city at the end of a long day; you won’t worry about wasting gas. Hand me the aux and rest your hand out the window, grinning as I drum on the glovebox in your peripherals. Park at the highest point in town and lean on my sweater as I point to the tiny red-white orbs of places we’ve once been. Traffic makes you anxious and you don’t like my music, but today you don’t mind either.
Dance with me in the living room when the night is blackest and moths beat against the porch light. We’ll trip on each other’s shoes in three-quarters time and mouth the words to “I Get Along Without You Very Well.” Stare into my eyes in between songs with your dilated pupils and pursed smile that tell me everything I need to know. You’re not a dancer, and you like to keep quiet for the renters, but today you don’t care about either of those things.
Repulsive things– January snow that collects on the roadside in black clumps of dried mud and gasoline spills. Scraping silver against silver for the last salvageable trace of dinner. A child who cries in disgust at a pair of socks under the Christmas tree. Anger directed at the messenger rather than the source. Coffee poured in a to-go cup instead of a house mug. An arbitrary marriage.
A man starts to look like a question mark when he tosses about future tense words in casual conversation. “After college we could–” (I haven’t thought about tomorrow.) “Our kids could read–” (My mind cannot carry the hypothetical weight of myself as a mother.) “I can see us down the road–” (But what about today?) I carry the infinite possibilities of the unknown like bricks in my backpack; he lets them glide into the air like feathers. He sees me as a future spouse; I see him as my current best friend. “How would you feel about getting married right out of school?” (How do I know I will still want to marry you?) He’s “dating for marriage” on the first date, and I can never decide what ice cream flavor I want. When one brings up those non-reversible decisions that you will live out each day of your remaining life, I cannot feel the carefree comfort I used to. I am less jovial, more practical, more prone to plan around the future. His eyes are not a beacon of light but a reminder of the inevitability of aging. I feel old looking at him. He is the looming face of my future. He is no longer a best friend; he’s a question mark.
Things I notice– cracks in the sidewalk. The people walking behind someone I’m talking to. The major seventh chord in a string concerto. When someone feels left out of a conversation.
I love the sound of church bells striking thrice every hour. It’s something that simultaneously exists in a modern context whilst being an untouched relic of the past. When I hear them I think of rolling hills in New Hampshire when the grass thins out and the oak trees turn into vibrant shades of orange and red. I think of a young mother in an ankle-length sundress with her ear to the wind preparing to pick up her children from school. I think of Easter morning in Utrecht when the streets hold the eerie silence of the night before Christmas, save for the crunch of bike against brick and the dull chimes echoing from the nearest cathedral. I think of my grandmother’s clock in the house in the woods I frequented as a child–those mundane days when the hours passed with leisure and the past was always behind me.
The Red Wheelbarrow– so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens. Much depends upon a mothers hands pushing her stroller forward and upon the ice-capped sidewalks she stumbles over. So much depends on directing our attention to the faintest forms of life, to the water droplets that fill the sink, to the small memories that make up a lifetime. I heard someone say that if Bach didn’t exist he’d listen to someone else, but if his father didn’t exist, he doesn’t know who he’d be. I believe the little things matter more than we think they do.
Boring love– Love goes against thought, because it is most strikingly obvious when it is most commonplace. Let’s walk to the grocery store–I’ll buy dinner. It is most loud in the quiet of the mornings when you meet the eyes of one who gently watched you fall asleep. I’ll make you coffee–your favorite beans. It speaks through the rehashed work days and long to-do lists. Truthfully, I’d be happy doing laundry and taxes with you. Infatuation dies in the monotonous daily rhythms and in the moments when we are unlikable. It withers when we are rash on the phone, when we lose the motivation to wake, when we are no longer interested from afar. Joy overflows from within when you find someone who makes a life of laundry and taxes satisfying enough.
Things that are sad– When you wait in a long line for ice cream but end up regretting your flavor choice. When a person you know well makes an incorrect assumption about you.
