The Han under emperor WuDi used state monopolies to fund successful expansionist efforts that helped disrupt then defeat the Xiongnu to the north and push out into the Ferghana region of Central Asia and over into the Korean peninsula and down into Vietnam. The people who encouraged the emperor in these efforts were known as the “modernists”, “We are the mods, we are mods,” Another group of Confucianists who ultimately won the upper hand were the reformists and they thought the state shouldn’t be involved in matters the private sector could otherwise account for. Raising money for expansionist efforts was money wasted. Focus on improving the realm and what was core to China. And though this debate continues today, “modernists” are still, practically concerned within their immediate neighborhood.
I read a Burton Watson translation of Fu poetry or the poetry of rhapsody that seems to have originated in the early Han. Sima Qian had a lengthy quote of the Sima Xiangru exaltation of “Sir Fantasy” and the flowery hunt that is better in every subsequent kingdom until the sagacious poet pops the balloon. I have another translation of some of the same material. Comparing them you realize the remarkable range that Chinese ideographs must present the for the builder, constructing sentences in English. Somber, the poem by Pan Yue, A.D. 300 who wrote the “Idle Life” about whiling away a refined life “Cherishing my ineptness, I shall live carefree till the end.” Is the final line. The introduction brings our attention to the fact that Pan Yue; “accused by a disgruntled rival, was executed on charges of treason. According to the harsh custom of the age, his mother, brothers, and other close kin were al obliged to share his fate.”
Midday I approached the little one and said: “when you were young you used to come up to me in my office and say: ‘come play!’ Now I’m coming to you; ‘come play.’” And I could tell within a moment that she would at least go outside, though I’d have to plead for a while. I did. She did. And soon we were walking over the five feet high pile of snow that the plow had made. Over this challenge she and my wife literally followed in my footsteps down the back yard and into the woods. My destination was the trail but before we could get there, standing agape in the somber silence of the snow-covered cypress skeletons, she decided to turn around and go back. The Mrs. and I carried on, slowly.
Now I’m going to head across the river and see how my mom and stepdad are doing. It is odd working with people from around the world who wouldn’t know about or be concerned with local weather. But I don’t see much of anyone in the area so it’s easy to pretend it is just a hyper-local things. Down below the deer are trying to nibble on the juniper. They hate eating that but I suppose in the winter they’ll take anything. The snow is up to their chests. The snow is falling once again. Apparently, there is more coming later in the week. My deer friend and jazz mentor of my teens had recommended Hubert Laws, but most of what I listened to just now sounded like fuzak.
Tuesday, 02/02/21
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