This took me a bit to get through and what stuck with me the most was the wreath-laying example: 27 years of the ceremony working produced no file, but the one year it failed produced an open letter, news coverage, and a paper trail within 48 hours. That gap of a working system leaving no trace but a broken one creating tons of documentation explains why nobody had anything to push back with when the policy got reinterpreted. For me, this was a good reminder and prompting in the area of professionalism and culture too: when no one stops to ask the questions or define/document over time, the behaviors or happenings just become part of the unchecked flow.
The Facebook thread example works the same way from the other direction, treating an unanswered citation demand as evidence you can point to later, rather than just a dead-end exchange, and it pairs well with the ancient officials whose job was to formally object to the ruler, since writing a prediction down beforehand and documenting what happened after turn out to be the same move, just running in opposite directions in time. We've talked about this too, at some point it's just time-consuming and tiring to keep conversing (debating?) with someone who doesn't see logic or can't use it (or refuses to use it), and that's exactly where the record does the work you don't have the energy to do over time. You stop trying to convince the person in front of you and let the page convince whoever reads it later. Honestly, the whole series for me came down to the one line where you share "the record is the tool, but it's the person who actually has to sit down and keep it." That was the mic drop moment, b/c of all of the implications that can have; it is both a great stand alone note and/or it can open the door for the first question that popped into my mind immediately after reading it: who keeps the record and who does the record serve.
Thank you for quoting my essays, Jerry. Seeing them next to your logbook and the twenty-seven ceremonies, I didn't expect them to find a place in a room like that.
In Japan there's a custom called mushiboshi—airing books. You take them out of storage regularly and let them see the sun, so damp and dust don't ruin them. The interesting part is the phrase we use for it. Hi no me o abiru—"to bathe in the sun's eye"—carries two meanings at once. Literally, it's the airing that preserves a book. Idiomatically, it's when something that has remained hidden finally comes to light. Care and recognition, held together in the same expression.
Left in a drawer, even a carefully filed record can quietly gather dust or mold. Reading this series, I found myself thinking that some records which had spent years out of sight were finally getting their airing—the twenty-seven ceremonies, the 1953 speech, your logbook. Bringing a file out into the sun, where preserving it and bringing it into view become part of the same act, felt like one of the quiet threads running through all three essays.
First, hi Sammie, lucky pup!
This took me a bit to get through and what stuck with me the most was the wreath-laying example: 27 years of the ceremony working produced no file, but the one year it failed produced an open letter, news coverage, and a paper trail within 48 hours. That gap of a working system leaving no trace but a broken one creating tons of documentation explains why nobody had anything to push back with when the policy got reinterpreted. For me, this was a good reminder and prompting in the area of professionalism and culture too: when no one stops to ask the questions or define/document over time, the behaviors or happenings just become part of the unchecked flow.
The Facebook thread example works the same way from the other direction, treating an unanswered citation demand as evidence you can point to later, rather than just a dead-end exchange, and it pairs well with the ancient officials whose job was to formally object to the ruler, since writing a prediction down beforehand and documenting what happened after turn out to be the same move, just running in opposite directions in time. We've talked about this too, at some point it's just time-consuming and tiring to keep conversing (debating?) with someone who doesn't see logic or can't use it (or refuses to use it), and that's exactly where the record does the work you don't have the energy to do over time. You stop trying to convince the person in front of you and let the page convince whoever reads it later. Honestly, the whole series for me came down to the one line where you share "the record is the tool, but it's the person who actually has to sit down and keep it." That was the mic drop moment, b/c of all of the implications that can have; it is both a great stand alone note and/or it can open the door for the first question that popped into my mind immediately after reading it: who keeps the record and who does the record serve.
Dang, thank you! This is exactly what I love about writing and reading others' work. I'm going to log your comment for future use.
Thank you for quoting my essays, Jerry. Seeing them next to your logbook and the twenty-seven ceremonies, I didn't expect them to find a place in a room like that.
In Japan there's a custom called mushiboshi—airing books. You take them out of storage regularly and let them see the sun, so damp and dust don't ruin them. The interesting part is the phrase we use for it. Hi no me o abiru—"to bathe in the sun's eye"—carries two meanings at once. Literally, it's the airing that preserves a book. Idiomatically, it's when something that has remained hidden finally comes to light. Care and recognition, held together in the same expression.
Left in a drawer, even a carefully filed record can quietly gather dust or mold. Reading this series, I found myself thinking that some records which had spent years out of sight were finally getting their airing—the twenty-seven ceremonies, the 1953 speech, your logbook. Bringing a file out into the sun, where preserving it and bringing it into view become part of the same act, felt like one of the quiet threads running through all three essays.
Thank you too. I enjoy reading your work and seeing the cultural connections.