Something different this week, something like a notebook, a journal, perhaps even a pillow book.
The most famous pillow book is the 10th century journal written by imperial Japanese courtesan Sei Shōnagon. The translated edition today is an erudite and sometimes amusing compendium of her private views and attitudes and remains one of my most favourite books.
In 2020, during our first Covid Lockdown, I was prompted to write my own pillow book. In ‘the strangest of times…’ I would pluck things from the ether on any one day and would try to note them down in the style of the courtesan. Her observations, despite 12 centuries of time passing, are modern, her view filled with sharp wit that is as keen today as it was in the Japanese court.
So here is just a little piece of The Pillow Book of Prudence and perhaps like most of you at this time, it will be like komorebi – sunlight that filters through leaves on the trees.
#58. Things that are near though distant: Old age, Easter, our grandson visiting. The landscape viewed through new glasses. Death. Memories of my loved mum and dad. Politicians – too near for comfort. Writing the novel which is due for publication in September-October. It is now March...
#59. Things that are distant though near: Old age, Death. Loved friends – always, death notwithstanding. Family and good memories held close. A life hereafter or reincarnation? The last day of the last month when the first day of the next month approaches at speed. Maria Island. Boat-trips which are near but distant because of the wind.
The next newsletter.
Ballet class…
#60. Winds: I dislike winds that are strong. Leaves of the season fly past the window at supersonic speed. Perversely the sky is often clear blue with no angry clouds rushing by. Wind that comes from nowhere going somewhere. Concealed with invisibility and yet not. The banshee howls at the windows let us know that it plays for keeps.
It’s not amusing when one has a balance problem and the wind causes dizziness. Or I assume when one wears hearing aids. It can be gently amusing when our five year old grandson is scooped into the wind’s grasp and propelled along the beach. It’s not amusing when a 200 year old pine tree is torn apart in the gales.
A light breeze on the other hand, drifts with fragrances, touches cheeks like the whisper of a memory. It refreshes or cossets and one can turn one’s face to the sun.
But the gales presage all manner of issues – fallen limbs, power outages and even wind-madness in the schoolyard. The Terrier may also suffer such madness but then he also suffers many kinds of madnesses because he’s a terrier. He doesn’t discriminate.
Washing on the line in a good breeze provides a wonderful sight and sound. Washing torn off the line does not.
Wind instruments are beautiful. Is there nothing more melodic than a flute?
I once heard a Shakuhachi flute played in the midst of the great southwest forests of Tasmania. It was otherworldly – shivers and goosebumps.
Passing wind, whilst being otherworldly, mostly lacks the melodic quality.
Still, as my husband’s honoured grandmother used to say, ‘Better out than in’.
***
#64. Things that are prudent:
Being cautious with one’s money. Being cautious with one’s actions. Thinking first. Not wearing black (For most who haven’t read my pillowbook in its entirety, I should explain that I have a bit of a thing about the vast amounts of BLACK people seem to wear. Why, I ask? Are we in mourning?).
Not writing a pillowbook.
#65. Things that are imprudent:
Not thinking before one speaks. Not being cautious. Politicians who don’t think before they speak and who are not cautious. Wearing black (See?!!!!!!).
Writing a pillowbook.
#66. For the last four score years and twenty and a lot, I’ve often asked myself why would my parents name me Prudence? I am not at all cautious or wise. But then again, neither am I a politician who opens my mouth before thinking. (We’re due to have state elections on 23/3/24)
Doing:
With autumn here (yes, the sun is sliding behind the hills earlier, the warmth of each day has changed marginally with what is euphemistically called Indian summer with the sun lower in the sky) we’re now in preserving mode. Apple chutney today, cherry plum jam tomorrow, zucchini everything every day.
Against my better judgement, I’m progressively trimming the burned and dry parts of the garden and have received postal orders of spring bulbs. In the spirit of things Japanese, I found the tiniest Japanese Maple seedling (3 inches high?), have dug it up, potted it in good soil and plan to make it a bonsai with no idea how. I love learning new things.
Swimming. Bliss.
Walking. Better at night than during a warm day.
Talking with the Terrier – we are even more bonded since he was injured earlier in the summer.
Writing. In the 12th century, specifically within merchant houses, feeling the silks, smelling the spices, holding rare (or not) reliquaries. It’s so removed from the heat and dust of our Dry.
We shipped off sheep this week – a relief. The men are now feeding out daily. Whilst our water troughs fill from the irrigation supply, other farmers aren’t so fortunate and waterholes are drying rapidly.
Reading:
On kindle, I purchased another Antoine Laurain, The Readers’ Room. As perfect as The Red Notebook. Finding an author with a good backlist is as good as finding an excellent long series on TV.
On audio, still with Christie’s Murder is Announced.
On Substack, Sally Frawley,
whose pumpkin and marmalade muffins sound delish.
and Tom…
And Martin Lake who led me down a complete rabbit (or hare) hole, I can tell you.
Watching:
Finished Dalgleish – quite good.
Watching Spooks now – the most polished spy thriller series ever, in our opinion. We were fans then and we’re still fans now. Our terrier was named for a Spook character - along with his stud prefix, his name sounds very impressive, the terrier himself somewhat less so.
In front of TV, I embroider. When a spook is killed by being drowned in a vat of boiling frying oil, the Kinsel bag and its colour spectrum diverts me until the scene is done. I find embroidery and also couch cushions excellent displacement when watching thrillers, crime shows and Viking series. I can usually tell by the audio when to look up again.
I wonder if Sei Shōnagon stitched as she pondered the social machinations of the Japanese imperial court. I can imagine her seated with ivory needle and the finest thread, slipping one delicate stitch after another through the almost transparent white silk. It speaks, you know, as silk thread drags through silk cloth. She would place her needle down, pick up a side-bound notebook (see image at start) and begin to write, never knowing that we, twelve centuries later, would read her words and learn so much.
I doubt my words’ll last for twelve years, let alone twelve centuries… (I have to say years as the book has been published for 4 years, so it’s made it that far, bless it!)
Do you think that when we write our thoughts on Substack that we are in fact, writing a kind of pillow book? I suspect a lot of us are…
Music this week?
Breaking wind. Out of all your beautiful descriptions this is what my 14 year old boy- mind clings to. 😂
These pillowbook entries, Prue, are a deeply resonant distillation of life and of living. A simply breathtaking read.
"A light breeze on the other hand, drifts with fragrances, touches cheeks like the whisper of a memory. It refreshes or cossets and one can turn one’s face to the sun."