my first go at Zuihitsu

I first heard about Zuihitsu from my friend Mele Girma, via a piece she wrote on her website (it’s worth reading!) Zuihitsu, described in short, is “a genre of Japanese Literature consisting of loosely connected personal essays and fragmented ideas that typically respond to the author's surroundings.” It originated in the 990s (!!!) with the writing of Sei Shōnagon— The Pillow Book, published in 1002.

The format reminded me a bit of the beloved Maggie Nelson’s Bluets. Microscopic essays, poem-like, free. I decided to give it a try: here’s my small offering.

1. I wonder how many meandering voicemails I’ve left since a phone landed in my small, pale, ten-year-old hands. “Hi, I was calling to _____… but I guess I’ve missed you…anyway… I just wanted to say _____… call me back when you can…if you’ve got time. Ok. Bye. Talk to you soon.”

How many moments have I not known what to say? If the cardinal could speak words I understand, would she meander too? Would she skirt around what she means to know, or get straight to the point? Would she choose to speak at all?

2. What is considered cliché is often cliché for a reason. Flowers (handpicked, not paid for) and chocolates (with caramel filling, not coconut.) Using the word “intentional” in any sentence. Choosing “flying” or “invisibility” when asked what superpower you would have, if you could have one. I’d always choose flying and the circle of tweens at summer camp would groan. Case and point, of course I yearned to fly— away from mouths prone to scoff, into arms prone to love. Somewhere else.

3. They say it’s a tragedy to be born from a mother with dreams not lived. Is it worse to be born from a mother with no dreams at all? The airplane whirrs as its wings prepare for landing, my arm reaches forward instinctively to press into the nondescript blue back of my neighbor’s seat, so I can keep being steady, and bored.

4. A dog barks, a baby cries, heads turn, faces vary as they take in the unlikely orchestra. Can you hear the strings in the shriek, the percussion in each yip? I hear a masterpiece, or nothing at all.

5. An empty kitchen is a joy all on its own, sunlight falling across the counter, tendrils of light wrap around my fingers as I sauté the summer squash, sprinkled with garlic, lemon pepper, very coarse salt. Each move is rhythmic, even when it’s not. A sacred space for the subpar dancer to dance uninhibited.

6. What moments might you keep in your pockets, if your pockets were the size of those sewn into a schoolboy’s khaki shorts? Sitting in a swing hung from a tree, slowly soaring beneath the maple leaves as you’re pushed against gravity by your friend who hopes you might be free. Depression sheds like thin snake skin, smacking summer air, disintegrating into crumbs, into dust, into nothing.

7. Something from nothing, or from little, is a delight unlike any other. Sprouts from seed, dirt, water. Have you ever known a miracle?! Gin and orange juice is the modern day “water to wine,” Ann Patchett wrote in other words. Some words make sense forever; Tracy Chapman’s resonate and resonate and resonate but I don’t think she hoped for them to do so.

8. Thoughts that probably are not unique to me: who will read my journals after I die…and what will they think? How much are my metal straws really helping to save the planet? If I only got cast in a nationally-aired commercial I might be financially stable for once. Could I ever be capable of giving a speech to a rowdy crowd of people? If I were from a big city instead of a small town, who might I be instead? I wish I actually liked to meditate.

9. Though I wish they wouldn’t, long showers irritate me, which in turn annoys those who love to take them. After a long day, with a shower beer, with The Cardigans, Brockhampton, even Leon Bridges blaring— I can only manage seven minutes. Eight, tops.

10. I saved a kid from drowning once. I was 12, 13 maybe. The lifeguard probably had his head up his sun-kissed ass, and the adults, chit-chatting, paid no mind. Like crossing the street, I looked both ways and dove in until my small, pale, pre-teen hand gripped Alec’s arm and pulled him awkwardly to the cement, his fingers and mine morphing into prunes, mouths gulping the day into our lungs like latent relief.