– I looked at the transcribed notes. Somehow this space of comment had something I couldn’t put my finger on.
The Ideal begins as an infatuation, a dream of a life together, a love but never a love affair, nor a carnal desire of any kind.
I once asked her. In my head, as usual.
At one point, over the course of the years, any ol’ fantasy takes a life of its own. Any man sufficiently obsessed by any woman starts to imagine possible situations and encounters whereby somehow men, in plural, I know my lot, think that stuff will actually happen.
So there I was. That’s how far I had come in my imaginary torment. It’s a torment alright. Conversations with the Ideal. As in an impossible Ideal. Gotsta keep it real.
Not that am afraid of her or her rejection. Or maybe I am. Who knows. I have come to terms of the idea of her not in my life without even asking her. I am insufficient for her. So I think. Hope is last to kick the bucket.
I asked her, as I said, in my head. How do you do that? How the fuck do you fuck me over and over again in my soul, my blood and my head without even touching me bitch?
In the end, any sensible man will realize that it’s not the other party causing the change or the magic or whatever you want to call it when a woman makes a man lose his bearings.
It’s all about what you allow the mind to take a hold of.
Years ago I would’ve acted on the feelings. But am in Europe now.
Here, there is no Manifest Destiny nor the idea of the One. Here, it’s all about the stupid utilitarianism of it all.
– Then it seemed to hit me. Does Charlie suffer cultural stuntedness? What kind of emotional vortex is this?
Charlie’s emotional constitution is a dire mess, royal at that. He can’t seem to get a grasp on that aspect of his life to 100%. He manages to eek out a living where occasionally he can forget about his emotional situation. Frustration, inability to move forward and move ahead when it comes to finding a partner to live with and the narrative he feeds his ego, all drag down daily sentiment down the path of gutter hell. The muck is awful which paralyses the living quality of the every day ens. It shouldn’t be like that.
That he manages to gain some sort of composure to deal with the everyday when interacting with others and give the illusion that everything is dandy is surprising even to me. Not that he’s about to enter an emotional crisis or breakdown emotionally either. Although he contends with issues of change which occur nilly willy it seems, since of late he seems to be holding more to the past than the present.
Note to self: buy milk and brazilian nuts.
It’s a veritable mess indeed. Life I suppose. Emotions are weird. One would wish you could just get rid of them as easy as they came. Emotions, however, tend to have a life of their own. Like liking this girl which has troubled he’s soul for years now. When is that feeling going to be over and done with? He really hates it that whenever she suddenly comes in his vision field she evokes all kinds of torrentious emotions for no reason at all and then he has to contend with the idea of her in his soul, of all places. I get the beauty and the beast effect. But Charlie doesn’t. ”I start assessing myself”, he says, ”and I just can’t come to par with that beautiful Nordic beauty queen with no fucking equal on this fucking planet. I see myself as a terrible fucking beast that is no match for her.”
I listen attentively to what Charlie says and then remember to add beer to my shopping list.
”It’s not her fault I get all gooey whenever she happens to appear. I really try to be the man about this. I try and pull myself together and ignore my feelings as much as I can but somehow she has penetrated the veins where my blood courses. What to do? I do try other methods to control my emotions. Meditation, avoiding the girl and God why isn’t there any other women who can distract me?”
The session ends. Charlie gets off the chair and stops looking outside the window, as soon as the second the session ends. His habit, to stare as he talks, outside the window. Like the elderly Manhattan lawyer office in Bartleby the Scrivener , the brick wall before is a lofty brick wall, black by age and everlasting shade. He knows his hour is over. I look pensive and jot down another thing I must by at the store. He steps off the rum and I place my notebook in my desk. I think about this femme Charlie talks about. I wonder when will I be dumbstruck by a woman in my life. Charlie makes it sounds as if his guts are being torn apart; as if his veins are on fire; as if his soul is being burned alive on some sort of personal hell. For godsakes, he comes to me to talk about an imposible love and the feelings unprocured by it. This guy is in guy limbo. Nowhere to go, imposibilitated by his own accord. He is stunted in every way by his own self.
”You know it’s all his fault”. He heard himself saying. It’s all about the gall. ” Says the guy who just wished he felt like Charlie.” Yeah, I suppose. What does he stare at when he comes to talk to me about this flame?
Ever had a good idea gone bad? This is one of them. I thought it’d look great taking all the pieces I had on The River ki and paste them together. It looked better in my head.
En fin. Prosigo con El River Ki. Y es que este libro no deja de darme gustos y pensamientos. Estoy enfrascado con Fumio, la hija rebelde del clan Matani. Pero entre más leo y me entero de cómo tratan a Fumio más me doy cuenta de que la lectura es una de advertencia al nipones. La advertencia es un tanto nacionalista.
Verán, Fumio ha rechazado toda tradición japonesa y ha acogido todo lo moderno. Recuerden, la historia se sitúa a principios del siglo XX. Para Fumio, las tradiciones japonesas son cadenas que no permiten salir adelante. Ella hace todo lo posible por rechazar lo viejo y todo por valerse de lo moderno. Su familia nunca deja de velar por ella aunque ella los maltrate con sus ideas modernas.
Aquí lo que hace que Fumio empiece a cambiar de parecer son cambios radicales en la vida. De esos momentos que le hacen a uno recapacitar y dudar de las fundaciones mentales creadas a través de la lectura y las ideas que le hacen a uno adherirse a principios intelectuales como, en este caso, el feminismo y el rechazo a las viejas usanzas basadas en tradiciones y supersticiones. Las tragedias que le hacen a Fumio cambiar de mentalidad le hacen retornar a las viejas costumbres que tanto rechazó. Por lo tanto, recae en los cuidados que debió de haber recibido durante su infancia. Las mujeres que tanto velaron por ella durante su periodo de rebeldía ahora la tratan de comprender con las preguntas que se hacen. La tratan como un alma perdida en un limbo y el tono de la narrativa adquiere un tono condescendiente. La familia no se burla de ella directamente pero quien narra los eventos hace entender al lector que algo no está bien, casi como si la intención es sentir lástima por Fumio.
The River Ki Sawako Ariyoshi
Published by Chuokoronsha in 1959
Translated by Mildred Tahara Kondansha International
Tokyo, New York and San Francisco
1ra ed. 1980 3ra ed. 1985
LCC 79-66240
ISBN 0-87011 514-6
isbn 4-7700-1000-1 (en Japón)
Bueno, después de estar jugando un poco con programas de fotos puedo dedicarme a la recensión de este libro que como los muchos libros que he venido leyendo por estas fechas, suelen ser leídos con una fuerza rara.
¿Qué se puede decir del libro The River Ki?
Para los interesados en el feminismo es un libro bastante ideal para empezar a comprender la cultura nipones y su historia dentro del feminismo aunque habrá que decirlo con cautela ya que el libro fue escrito en la década de los 50’s del siglo pasado. Eso en sí indica una serie de ideas revolucionarias en lo que concierne literatura pues en puerta está el desenlance de la revolución sexual de la década de los 60’s.
Eso no quiere decir que la lectura no produzca placeres nada más porque el trama o los detalles se hayan manchados por teorías literarias; muy al contrario, los detalles y la imaginación se enriquecen ya que la autora tiene la licencia para ello. Aunque habrá que escarbar para obtener la veracidad de los hechos que se presentan en la novela. Uno de esos hechos que le llaman a uno la atención y que uno no sabe si es verdad o no de ello es la narrativa que la novela lleva sobre el feminismo en Japón antes de la II Guerra Mundial.
Dentro de la narrativa de The River Ki existe un conflicto de liberación femenina enterrado cuyo desenlace tiene la buena elocuencia de hacer su catarsis a manera sutil, sin que uno se de cuenta que dentro la corriente del río Ki hay un sedimento cuyo lento mover produce cambios pero a larga plazo. Quizá sea ese el mensaje que Ariyoshi presenta para su pueblo pero para uno que ni pío ni idea tiene del pueblo del Sol naciente sin ofender a la Raza China, pues bien, venga, que quizá las ideas de las sufragistas de nuestra Norteamérica bien hicieron sus onditas allá por esos lares del planeta en aquellas fechas pues.
Aparte del feminismo implícito en la novela hay mucho que una lectura de The River Ki ofrece al buen lector cuya paciencia quizá sea mayor que la mía. La novela está llena de esos símbolos milenarios como lo es un buen río. Así como en México el Río Bravo cuenta sus historias y el Río Don de Rusia cuenta las suyas, el Río Ki o Kinokawa cuenta una serie de cuestiones humanas y la narrativa de este río empieza con las consecuencias de ir o darle la contra al río.
Ir a contra corriente nunca es bueno se nos induce a creer al principio de la lectura y los detalles y las mini narrativas de las mujeres en la novela nos harían creer que nunca es bueno ir contra la corriente. Pero Ariyoshi mientras nos inunda con sus ricos detalles quizá querrá decirnos algo más allá de los micro relatos o las vidas sumisas que las mujeres del River Ki llevan acabo en su diario porvenir.
Y es que a pesar de las tradiciones que las mujeres insisten en perseverar acaban con destruir lo que ellos más aprecian: ellas mismas.
The River Ki II
Published on April 11, 2011
Mas me parece que la novela japonesa tiene cosas comunes como la política y el orden político que ello conlleva con los géneros. Así como con ese autor inolvidable, Yukio Mishima, la política es un actor cuyas trascendencias van más allá de las vidas de los personajes y cuya mención mientras insignificante en cuanto a cupo en la novela afecta de maneara grandiosa el destino de las personas en cuenta. Las mujeres en ese río de confluencias históricas saben su lugar y desde esa orilla del río hacen del flujo una corriente difícil de ignorar. Y es ahí en donde el género quezque subyugado reafirma su poder, el cauce de la narrativa de la historia. Acá unas pantaletas femeninas y el lugar que esas pantaletas deberían de indicar su lugar adquieren un poder místico. Y a eso va la novela, en realidad.
Ahora, la autora también sufre del virus del racismo de que la humanidad, por alguna razón, por cada raza que en ella existe, se cree original e única cuyo destino tuvo su lugar de origen singular. Todas las razas del mundo se creen originales aunque aquí hemos de enfatizar que en el Japón las razas entre ellos mismos distan de ser solos sino como el Ginseng muchas raíces los hace singulares a sí mismos.
Mas en esta lectura es dato curioso que el rechazo al paisano parece tener aspectos universales por un así decir y es que me parece coincidencia que lo que los pochos sufren se vea tan reflectado en la vida de El River Ki.
What? Lee.
December 23, 2013
Enter Fumio from The River Ki by Sawako Ariyoshi. A rebel as told by third persons. A youth whose childhood exploits and academic interests surpass the present and future in every fashion. Yet she must obey conventions and give in to the norms of her era for legacy to remain. A misunderstood kid whose few laughters are retributed in pain. I am Fumio too.
Tengo muchos años usando perfume para hombre. Un buen amigo de la infancia, José Virgen alías el Brujo, Kiko y Cheché, nos introdujo a las susodichas fragancias cuando trabajaba para una tienda en Tijuana que se llamaba Importaciones Sara’s allá en los 80’s. Se jambaba las muestras en botellitas pequeñas que primero empezó a regalar y no se hizo esperar la demanda por sus botellitas las cuales después las vendía. Ya prendido uno de las fragancias pues ni cómo. La que se quedó en la memoria fue una de Paco Rabanne, era la más codiciada. Después ni las pelaba.
Me enamoré varias veces y un efluvio que me trajo juido era de una morra que conocí en un Mc Donalds allá en Menlo Park de California. Se llama Jill Boyer. Ella usaba una fragancia que se llama Poison, de Dior. Antes de esa usaba Obsession de Ck. Esa fragancia con el sexo, jode, ni pista de Julio por ningún lado, pura locura de la buena. Después con una belga me enamoré de una fragancia unisex, Ck One. Jode, por igual, esa esencia combinada con sexo, son-of-a-bitch; sexo y perfumes, para reventar de locura máxima.
Hoy en día uso Dolce & Gabbana. Pero por decisión propia. Tengo como 4 años usando la misma fragancia. Se llama Light Blue Uomo. Me gusta. No es escandalosa. Sirve para mi profesión en donde tengo que tener cuidado de no ofender sensibilidades alérgicas. Hoy compré dos botellitas de esas. A ver qué.
So am writing profusely in English. Don’t ask why. It just happens. I think I started picking up on my writing because of Hemingway. Or the movie at least. The one with that chick, Nicole Kidman. Though I’ve read a number of stories of Hemingway I can’t say that I have read all of them. I am a Hemingway reader, make no mistake about it. But he is like a lollipop. Though am sure he wouldn’t approve of the metaphor. I’m trying to get in the game. Listening to stuff to get me out of my rut. Which is not writing. That rut. So why English? I suppose it’s easier than having to confront my shortcomings in Spanish. I really hate writing in Spanish though not that much. But it does rile me that Spanish has more vocabulary I wish I knew how to use as compared to my English which seems to be a deep well of knowledge that I can just stick my hand in it no matter how deep the well is and still be able to enrich my writing with beautiful words.
Spanish always leaves me feeling alien. Every time I come across a good book in Spanish written by Spaniards I am left flabbergasted at the richness of the language I supposedly call mine. Now, by good book I mean books by people who painstakingly work with the language in a manner that they select carefully by second hand their own choice of words. Usually the lot is one who is academically oriented such a Pérez-Reverte or my favorite Isabel Vicente. Their use of language makes them inherently mysterious because their use of language leaves a certain flavor in the mouth that I haven’t come across in a so-called iberoamericano.
Which begs the question. Are we too bereft of the richness of Castilian that we stand oceans apart? The answer is quite intricate in many fashions. For one, Iberian American Spanish has to contend with the fact its language is not wholly Spanish or Castilian nor surrounded by its latinate variations to feed of its latin nutrients. There are many other linguas which affect iberoamericano languages of which Spanish is but one, although be it the main funnel by where the indigenous languages must traverse in order to make sense in the world of the Spanish. Alas! yes, indigenous language are subjugated even to this day to the Spanish whore.
Be that as it may, both sorts of Spanish are different in different ways.
I guess I still feel short changed when it comes to Spanish. I rue the motherfucking tongue that gives me its milk & honey because its tit is not mine. Its not mine yet.
I don’t really know how much of a Swede I am. I mean, here I am, expressing that in English. I suppose that I can never be a Swede in the physical sense but in the realms of how a Swede is I can say I adhere to their ways. Comportment, attitudes, certain values and manners to name a few aspects of the sentient parameters of the Swedish ens are indeed well ingrained in my constitution.
It’s hard to explain. Perhaps am not even that assimilated but I adjust my manner of being to theirs so as to smoothly transit through their existential flow. After all, the old adage of When in Rome do as the Romans do applies because in order to be able to be in the midst of the culture one has to bend internal rules of behaviour to conform to local customs.
Yet this is only when I interact with Swedes. Am I Swede in other situations that don’t require the presence of a Swede to monitor my Swedishness?
That is the crux of the matter. Hence my conundrum. Do I conduct myself in a Swedish manner outside the influence of the physical Swede? And is there an example of it so that I can postulate it here?
I suppose that I could argue that in order to be able to be ready I must practice before hand any given situation that might arise. I must prepare dialogue before it even happens. But that still doesn’t give evidence of quiddity.
I suppose that the best evidence I can give is by denial. By affirming that which I am not. I am not Mexican when I walk the forest. I am not Xicano when I suppress my interior emotions, when I hold in check that which I would otherwise do. I am not American when I control my voice so as to not give hint of emotions. All this in order to fuse with my milieu so as to fluently as possible, not disturb the environment.
That’s when I am a Swede at best.
Como dicen en mi país: Calladito te miras más bonito.
I don’t know what this country has come to. Frankly. you’d think that in a country like Sweden there be beer for sale on what I thought, and seemed, to be an ordinary any other day. I know that in other parts of the world, or Europe, today is important because of the 3 Wise guys. So I conducted myself as if it were any other ordinary day. I even expected the postman to deliver. But no. Everything was seemingly shut down to-day.
I really don’t understand what happened to good ’ol atheist par excellence Sweden. I really think the Vikings are turning over their graves as we speak.
So I went to the local monopolized liquor store known as Systembolaget only to experience bitterness and utter disappointment at the fact that the store was closed due to what the Swedes call trettondagen which I did not know is what the Swede call a red day, that is, it is day off for most peeps. Or thirteen days after xmas, epifania what not for those interested.
Don’t mes with a man and his beer.
Well. Luckily the Arabs had their stores open. It’s days like these you appreciate other cultures. I mean, it wasn’t strong beer or anything. But it did quench some of the thirst. So long live multiculturalism.
