On an especially frosty November evening, I'm awaiting the sluggish arrival of an N train at Queensboro Plaza. I was informed earlier that day that the magazine internship I had acquired, months ago, was most probably never going to turn into a full-time gig, and unless I wanted to continue with this warped form of servitude, I was going to have plunge headfirst into the job search--yet again.
My fingers are icicles as they fish for my iPod, buried under the depths of an overstuffed tote. As I cram the headphones into my ears--or whatever I can feel of them, at least--an energetic guitar riff precedes the vocal stylings of Colin Meloy, front man for one of my favorite wintertime bands, The Decemberists , as he croons "The Crane Wife," which also happens to be the title of their 2006 album.
The sound of the relentless city wind intermingles with Meloy's haunting voice, but I'm certain there's something familiar about the words he's singing. Though I can't quite pinpoint it, I feel an almost visceral connection to the tragic story of The Crane Wife, "all clothed in a snowy shroud."
It's only when I'm snuggled on my couch later that night, Googling furiously, that I can confirm "The Crane Wife" was actually inspired by an ancient, Japanese fairy tale, "Tsuru no Ongaeshi". Roughly translated, apparently that's--are ya ready?--The Crane's Repayment for Kindness Received. (I'd love to re-tell it but I'd be teetering super close to an ugly little thing called plagiarism, so I encourage you to read this. Apologies in advance for the cheezy koto-wannabe music that accompanies the virtual slideshow. I'd just skip the volume, if I were you)
Well that explains it, I muse. I'm no stranger to the story, thanks to my childhood baby-sitter, Okada-san, who told and re-told it on the nights I feigned insomnia, knowing that my dreams, however vibrant, would be no match for her intricately woven fairy tales. Despite being treated to snippets from The Ramayan and The Mahabharat, which my grandmother patiently shared, I secretly lived for the nights that Okada-san would tuck me in. Though the accounts of Ram and Krishna were, undoubtedly, action-packed, forever tinged with a sensible, moral message, I craved the silvery, fantastical nature of their Japanese counterparts. My favorites ranged from Kaguya-Hime, the story of a magical little girl found living in the midst of a bamboo stalk to Urashima-Taro, a back to the futuresque account of a valiant fisherman who rescues a turtle, only to be rewarded with a trip to an underwater kingdom.
I'd like to think that those evenings with Okada-san were what fomented my fixation on all things fiction. A scratchy voice, musky scent and an endless supply of jewel-tinted gummies, wrapped in edible rice paper, are all I can remember of her. Her stories, though, make up a treasure-trove that I reach in to from time to time, when I lack inspiration, optimism and even drive. Which pretty much sums up where I'm at, standing on an almost-empty platform, feeling unnecessarily sorry for myself. And now, thanks to Meloy and his awesome band, my worlds have collided into one magnificent song. On a whim, I put "The Crane Wife" on repeat, rub my hands together, take a deep breath and squint ahead, thanks to the glowing light of a train, slowly but surely, approaching my direction.
1 comment:
wow, that's really beautiful... i wish i remembered the stories and the storytelling that people told me growing up with such color. there was one the veeral's mom used to tell us when we were about to go to bed, about a mouse and an elephant who were friends, but the elephant accidentally stepped on him... but somehow i think it was better when she told it.
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