"So come, all ye young men who are building castles / kindly state the time of the year"

Found in an old file but never posted:


If the opening of Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book were rewritten into a culture with an esthetic of eternity instead of transience, it might have entries something like this:

1.

Summer, it is a stagnant pond in early afternoon. Heat and humidity settles over everything like a formal robe three layers too thick, and no one wants to move. Even dragonflies cannot be bothered to circle and perch upon the reeds waiting for the sun to lower, which seems to take forever.

Winter, it is ice in the permanent shadow of a black rock. Though of course it is better if it not in a public place, where it gets dirty.

Autumn, it is a crowntree after the leaves are gone. When the moon shines through the branches, reflections of the polished nuts are especially lovely, but it is pleasing to see them any time, knowing they will remain whole until the first strong thaw of spring. How perfect it is to imagine they will never fall.

Spring, there is nothing beautiful, unless it is a plain of barren rocks, or the Royal Dunes in Sahedar -- but that is too far from the capital to contemplate.

I apparently didn't write any more, and I'm not sure how long I would want to spend in such a headspace.

---L.

"So come, all ye young men who are building castles / kindly state the time of the year"

Found in an old file but never posted:


If the opening of Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book were rewritten into a culture with an esthetic of eternity instead of transience, it might have entries something like this:

1.

Summer, it is a stagnant pond in early afternoon. Heat and humidity settles over everything like a formal robe three layers too thick, and no one wants to move. Even dragonflies cannot be bothered to circle and perch upon the reeds waiting for the sun to lower, which seems to take forever.

Winter, it is ice in the permanent shadow of a black rock. Though of course it is better if it not in a public place, where it gets dirty.

Autumn, it is a crowntree after the leaves are gone. When the moon shines through the branches, reflections of the polished nuts are especially lovely, but it is pleasing to see them any time, knowing they will remain whole until the first strong thaw of spring. How perfect it is to imagine they will never fall.

Spring, there is nothing beautiful, unless it is a plain of barren rocks, or the Royal Dunes in Sahedar -- but that is too far from the capital to contemplate.

I apparently didn't write any more, and I'm not sure how long I would want to spend in such a headspace.

---L.