The prettiest prose

Along with newly found time for crafting, I'm finally getting into the unread books in my humble collection. Those that follow me on Twitter have probably heard me raving about Japanese author Haruki Murakami before. His writing haunts me, and I find myself daydreaming over his words throughout the day. I usually get lost in excessive details, but somehow I enjoy every touch Murakami adds to his prose.

A friend of mine suggested I read Sputnik Sweetheart a couple of years ago, and by the end of that year the novel had become a shared read within our home of four. Some were fonder than others, but no one expressed a lack of interest. I'm currently, and quickly, working my way through Norwegian Wood.

It may be strange to post about a book I have yet to finish, but as much as I am enjoying the writing, I continually have to wonder just how exact the translation can truly be. I can't imagine being able to take on the responsibility for translating a revered work into such a different tongue. Sometimes, knowing that "just the jist" of passages may be getting across bothers me. The question of dilution of meaning has to be an issue. Jay Rubin, a translator of several of Murakami's works, wrote in an email roundtable discussing the translation of Murakami that he believes the discretion of the translator and the fact that a translation cannot ever be perfect is a positive thing. He explains that it forces a continual questioning of the meaning of the text. When a translator believes he or she is a passive medium, he writes, then you're going to get mindless garbage, not literature. I'd like to hear my friend Le Polyglotte's thoughts on this.

Phillip Gabriel, another translator of Murakami's works, had this to say in the same email roundtable:

. . . there are so many possible translations of even one line. So very much depends on the voice you hear in your head as you read a piece of fiction. That's the voice you're trying most to reproduce when translating something like a Murakami piece. People ask me what's the most challenging part about translating Murakami, and I guess that's the answer: finding, and staying true to, the voice you hear as you read the original.

Reading through the emails of these translators, I found myself wanting to post entirely too many passages, so I suggest reading through it fully. You can find the emails by clicking the translations link on Murakami's website, which I posted above. I doubt that I will be able to ignore the constant little questioning of trueness to the original in my mind while finishing Norwegian Wood, but I'm going to try to consider the difference an alternate to literary garbage instead of a bother.

I leave you with one last Murakami plug via another quote from Rubin:

I can still see the colors of the dreams escaping into the atmosphere from the unicorn skulls near the end of the books when I think back to that first reading of Hardboiled Wonderland, and I remember how much I regretted closing the last page and realizing that I couldn't live in Murakami's world anymore.

How can THAT not encourage picking Murakami up?

Christmas in the making

I’m currently working with women of all ages in a department store. I’m learning more each day about the varying stages of, dare I say it, “womanhood,” and things get a little kooky now and then. This isn’t the first time I’ve worked with a lot of
women. And all of them, even if only on the consumption side, have a love for food to some capacity.

The other day, Beth, a personal shopper in her early 50s was telling me about her Christmas gift making plans. “Christmas is for the birds” is her theme. She is making all of her pals birdhouses. I love it. I started thinking about what I could do with a theme, or gift making idea in general. A day or so later Beth brought in some of her famous garlic bread. The following day Sam had a tub full of decorative cupcakes. I don’t know why it took me probably a week later for my gift making epiphany to hit, but it did. I’m making the women in my immediate family cookbooks filled with our family recipes. I’m actually really excited about this, and I will probably end up making one for myself-- I MUST HAVE the recipes for my grandma’s pie crust, my aunt’s home made chicken soup and my mother’s hot rolls. I don’t know why I haven’t collected these by now, but I’m glad to be getting on it, and I think those receiving the books will be, too.
























I thought about several mediums, but I knew I wanted to avoid working digitally on this project. What you see here will be the only digital form these books take. My handwriting is shaky, but that is part of jotting down recipes, right? The paper you see here has been cut and sized to fit the DIY covers and binding kits I found. I found a lot of antique prints, and I am rarely drawn to rustic tones, but for this I feel it works. The recipes that this book will house aren’t being served in any luxe cafes-- they are straight from rural Southwest Missouri kitchens-- bright geometrics just weren’t jumping out at me for once.



















I haven’t hand made a gift for a couple of years. Somehow in the rush of finals and mayhem at school, it never even crossed my mind to handcraft much of anything. My nights are much slower lately, and I can admit that picking out paper for over an hour this week followed by curling up alone with a book in my favorite local coffee shop was pretty blissful. If you decide to take on a similar project, let me also suggest baking these while doing so. YUM.

Local Vegas

I've heard Branson often called the Vegas of the Midwest. I don't know how accurate the comparison is, as I've never been to Vegas, but I can tell you all that Branson is . . . something else. A good friend of mine came to visit over the past two days, and like any good local, I showed him around the 76 strip and all of Branson's odd glory.

We attempted to get 5 dollar palm readings, but the psychic was triflin' and refused to unlock her open signed door. Boo. We considered zip lining, but decided against the $100 discounted fee. We got locked out of a wine tasting, and the segway and go kart courses were closed. Answer? Flea markets, wax museum and Kung Fu show. The Kung Fu show was seriously fantastic. The cast was probably around 50 members strong, and no one was hanging around on stage for decoration. Check it out here: kungfubranson.com



After spending the afternoon with Will Smith, Marilyn Monroe and Chinese dragons, we ventured back up 65 to catch The Detectives at The Outland. This is a show that never disappoints. Ok, so maybe it was only my second time seeing them-- but I can't imagine it was ever a bore before I showed up. How many legitimately good musicians still get together to throw 50s dance parties? SO glad these guys are around in Springfield.

Lunch the next day at The Grad School with ridiculously good hummus and salad with pesto vinaigrette and a good friend was headed back north. I'll be sure to check the segway course schedule before anyone else visits.

Hallowin

I love Halloween. The past two years I really got into it-- and I give props to Maude Vintage in Columbia for really giving The Orbit Gum Girl and Carmen SanDiego all the finishing touches. This year, without Maude, and low on cash, I decided to dig from my own closet-- super last minute. The result was a really nappy MK Olsen. I can't deny that I'm a mega MKA fan. I didn't hate the costume, but it wasn't my best work. Either way, some new friends made the night, a late 2 AM start, a good time at The Art Factory in downtown Springfield. Anyone looking to donate some cash to help out local artists should consider this place. So much great space--glad I got to check it out.


On the actual Hallowed day I stayed home and handed out candy with my oh so fitting black kitten, Gypsy. My family got pretty into trick-or-treating in character this year (Ugly Betty and a Red Hat Lady,Irene) so I took door control. We had a Goldberg mask lying around . . . and I had a good time answering the door with that until a few children cried. If you don't remember the WWE wrestler you should look him up to refresh his mug. After a few criers I decided to ditch the mask and go real-faced at which point I started getting recognized as Miss Jones, the famous substitute teacher! Still not getting used to answering to any sort of titled name; it really throws me off.

My only complaint: I didn't see a single Betty White costume. This should have been a no-brainer, people!

let's call this an entry

For some time I have tried to come up with a specific, specialized blog. Some have been designed, many have crossed my mind only when all other things are crossed off my growing lists.
This one is sticking because it isn't going to specialize or promise anything. No rules, just meandering with me in the Midwest until enough of a breeze picks up to carry me out of here.