AUTHOR’S NOTE:

In this work I have attempted to transfer Matsuo Basho’s Oku no Hosomichi to a modern setting. The individual is not Basho, however, but rather a college student walking to main campus. From his dorm room, main campus is north; thus the purpose of Basho’s original journey holds true, albeit to a somewhat lesser degree—a journey (to the deep) north.

Based on the English translation by Nobuyuki Yuasa I have also attempted to capture the essence of Basho’s attitude and grammatical structure. While the reader may find some sentences cumbersome run-on sentences, such were the sentences on which I based my writings. Similarly, one may notice that I have included both waka and haiku poems. I have done so to convey a sense of ancientness—the ancientness Basho spoke of—via waka, as well as to maintain that sacred tradition of haiku for which Basho is famous.

WashU students are travelers for what seems an eternity. So are the shoes, and platform sandals that carry them. Those who march everyday, from the South 40 to main campus, across the brazen grasslands, or peddle bicycles with a maddening fury as they realize their alarm clock has failed yet again, spend their livelihood trekking like soldiers to a battlefield. There are a great number of students long since graduated or transferred, too, who surely collapsed beneath the weight of their gargantuan knapsacks. I myself have surrendered mounds of money so that I, too, may march to main campus, weighed down by so many over priced textbooks.

It was only dusk when I plopped down at my too expensive oak desk to chip away at the mound of homework that sat before me. I barely had time to sweep the broken pieces of mound off of my desk and into my cheap plastic trash can and lay down for a brief respite, but no sooner had I closed my eyes than my Westclox alarm clock struck 7:05 a.m. and let out a piercing scream that must have resonated throughout the paper-thin walls of my dorm building. The lack of sleep seemed to have drugged my soul and turned me into a zombie, and only the thought of discovering the hidden secrets of Japanese literature that afternoon seemed to revive me, so that it was impossible for me to stay idle in bed dreading the journey that await me a mere four stories below my window. Even while I was showering, and lacing up my marching boots for the trek to campus, I was already dreaming of filling my head with juicy bits of knowledge. Even the horrific march to campus couldn’t squash my enthusiasm for magna cum laude. Finally, after plugging my ears with Sony headphones and selecting a CD to slip into my Phillips Magnavox CD player, I closed the door to my small, pricey dorm room. Upon the threshold of my building, however, I was reminded of a similar pilgrim embarking on a journey so I wrote a waka and placed it near the "up" button of the elevator commemorating the event. The verse was:
 

"That fabric fashioned
By someone who weaves white threads
From water soaked hemp—
Might I cut a piece of it
To wear over travel garb?"

It was early on the morning of April the twenty-seventh that I took to the road. I squinted at the sunlight reflecting off of the grass still wet with the morning dew, though gradually melting away. The imposing shadow of Burton M. Wheeler Dormitory and the silence of knowing it was too early to be awake were bidding me a last farewell. Alas, I thought, no friends to accompany me on my journey, for they are still sound asleep. I pushed the "play" button on my CD player and set out; neither the scampering squirrels nor the green lawn furniture could be seen through my sleep-filled eyes except as a vision. I was again reminded of an ancient as he began a long journey. He wrote:
 

"The passing spring,
Birds mourn,
Fish weep
With tearful eyes."

With this poem, my journey was truly underway. Yet lingering grogginess made my steps heavy, for sleep was still firmly entrenched in my brain.

My first steps led me to the right, today, for I chose to walk the paved path rather than cut across the green landscape. After several steps I reached a fork in the road: if I turned right I would no doubt arrive at the hallowed Wohl Center, where for many years students have gathered to feast on pizza, hamburgers, and fried cheese. To the left, more road lay before me, yet in the distance it winded suspiciously between several dorm buildings. Seeing no reason to make communion at Wohl Center at this hour, I took the left path and wandered, as if lost, down the trail.

I walked for what seemed an hour, ever wishing to return to my nice warm bed after feeling the crisp morning air that comes with travel to the far north, but not really believing in the possibility, for I knew that surrendering to my fatigue on a journey like this should only prevent my fluency in many a subject matter. When I passed the sacred basketball courts, my shoulders were stiff and my back was in a knot because of the load I had been carrying, which consisted of several notebooks, four textbooks, college-ruled notebook paper, a Japanese-English/English-Japanese Dictionary, a Tanizaki novel, and a holepunch. I wanted to travel light, of course, like all students, but there were always certain things that I could not leave in my dorm room for either scholastic or leisure reasons.

I passed by the newly constructed Ursa’s Café; the smell of sawdust was still in the air. According to Yoshimi, my occasional companion, this café is dedicated to the philanthropist called Ursa With Too Much Money, who has another building named after her on main campus somewhere. This philanthropist is said to have won the lottery when she was twenty-one years of age, and a senior at WashU. As a result, she had much money to squander away on trendy coffee shops that serve overpriced soft pretzels and yogurt-by-the-cup. It is the custom of this place for students to idle away playing board games, and for diligent scholars to study until the wee hours of the morning.

Across from this café stood, glaring at me with sharp green paint from top to bottom, a large clock erected in commemoration of the ancients’ christening of main campus. An inscription reading "Washington University 1853" brought a tear to my eye as I was struck by the realization that nearly one hundred and fifty years had past since the ancients erected the campus from nothing more than a pile of dirt and fierce determination. How I longed to be among the ancients as they studied the antediluvian subjects of Greek and Latin and astronomy, and to be one of the founding fathers of my overpriced, overcrowded university. A piercing beep from my watch, however, drew me back to the present. The time was now 8:00. I had only thirty minutes to make it to class. I thus quickened my pace.

After trudging two or three minutes north from the clock, I came to a track mall, which from its roof sprouted forth an entire dorm building. (A track mall at a university, one may wonder? Indeed, with a tuition and room and board of nearly thirty-five thousand dollars, anything is possible at Washington University.) The walls of the mall were carved of glass so that I could see my reflection in it. Hence its nickname, See-oneself-mall. Now, what struck me odd about this mall was the number and variety of shops. The first shop I came to pass was an Enterprise Car Rental branch store. Odd, thought I, that The Narrow Road From the South 40 should have a car rental place when most people living on the South 40 are Freshmen and Sophomores and are hence too young to rent said car. I grimaced at an image of the chancellor cackling in his mansion, using my hard earned money to keep his fireplace lit.

The next store I passed was entitled "ResFridge: Come Chill With Us." I furrowed my brow as I read the hours-open sign in the window—Tuesdays and Thursdays: 3:00-4:00. Not very good customer service, I said to myself. But then when I saw that this was a student run company all my misgivings were put to rest: what else can one expect from a student run organization, I said to myself.

An overpriced (this should come as no surprise by now) salon, and something called "Nat’s Place" were the next two stores. There was a picture of a cell phone in the window of "Nat’s Place." How appropriate, I grumbled.

What a shameful waste.
Just as the sea is rising,
So is tuition—
So kids have places to shop.

I slowed my pace a moment to watch a grounds worker in the distance. Dressed in green from head to toe, with an emblem of "Top Care" surely stitched into more than just his jacket, he held a garden hose in his left hand, and a rake in his right. With a grim look on his face, the grounds worker stood like a statue and stared at the water spewing forth from his hose that was flooding a small rock garden. How many times had I seen this before, I reflected, a grounds worker hand-watering the miles of green lawn that infiltrates main campus. Never have I seen, in all my wanderings, a single sprinkler head sprout from the ground. Is WashU too advanced for an automatic sprinkler system, one that may save the lowly grounds workers the trouble—and boredom—of holding a garden hose for multiple hours a day in the scorching heat? I felt pity for this worker and began meandering over to offer my condolences when I noticed that he was fast a sleep: hose in one hand, and rake in the other.

After surely many days of solitary wandering, I came at last to the barrier-tunnel of Forsyth, which marks the entrance to the main-campus regions. Here, for the first time, I was able to think relatively straight, no longer bogged down by remnants of sleep, so it was with a mild smirk on my face that I imagined the ancient scholars who had passed through this tunnel carrying their textbooks, it being before the invention of heavy-duty backpacks. This tunnel was counted among the five strangest landmarks of the WashU campus (a hideous rabbit statue and the political science building being the two most distinct), and many students had passed through it, each leaving a design or poem of some sort of his own making in spray paint. Indeed, the barrier-tunnel to main campus is a moving mural, so to speak. It seems that everyday students are saddled up against the tunnel walls scrawling a message for some frat party or a charity event. And from the ceiling, drops of liquid substance splashed to the ground. In the winter these incessant drops form mighty stalactites, giving this underpass the feel of a real mountainous tunnel. I myself walked between the tunnel walls, doing my best to dodge the chemical substances falling from the ceiling, with the distant smell of bakery baked bagels in my nose from yonder Hilltop Bakery. According to the accounts of the peppy student tour guides that travel the campus many a time this time of year, the ancients are said to have passed through this tunnel nearly everyday they journeyed to the deep north.
 

The smell of spray paint
On a sunny spring morning—
Pastries do not mix

Pushing towards the north, I began to cross the Parking Lot, so called because cars often parked there, and walked between a daunting Nissan SUV on the left, and a nice shiny BMW, a beat up Ford Escort, and a Porsche on the right. Being a warm spring day, I could see dancing waves of heat in the distance. The sun was beating down on me as I made my way across the black pavement. So this is what the ancients must have experienced while in exile during the scorching months of Summer Vacation. I paused to wipe my brow, but the sudden grumbling in my stomach told me that I had to push forward and find sustenance, lest I collapse on my journey.

As I made my way across the Parking Lot I glimpsed a large tree. I was feeling sentimental at this time, and the towering tree reminded me of the great chestnut tree Basho speaks of in his Oku no Hosomichi. "When I stood there in front of the tree, I felt as if I were in the midst of the deep mountains where the Poet Saigyo had picked nuts," he writes. And just as Basho commenced to record his thoughts on the subject on a piece of paper from his bag, I, too, drew a pen from my pocket and wrote as follows on the limited area of my hand:

Basho—Chestnut Tree—Me—Oak (?)

And although I had no more room left on my hand, I recalled Basho’s accompanying poem:

"The chestnut by the eaves
In magnificent bloom
Passes unnoticed
By men of the world."

I decided to add my own verse to his, how futile my attempt may have been. This is what I etched with my mind as I made my way away from the tree and across the Parking Lot:

When will they notice
The beauty of nature’s leaves?
When crushed by a tree.

Just as I was ready to collapse from hunger and heat exhaustion, I was revived by the shade of the sacred Mallinckrodt temple. My olfactory nerves raised my tired eyes as I was drawn to the smell of baked goods radiating from that bakery that was so far away only minutes ago, but now a moment’s walk. My stomach, impatient as ever, drew me towards the bakery at a maddening pace. Yet I had to fight the current of the cold air bombarding me from all sides through air vents in the walls. Maybe under such conditions, I reflected, it was that Secretary Shotetsu wrote on the "Spring Wind." This is her poem:

"Blow with color, please—
You first wind striking the flowers
In the hearts of men
Before the grasses and trees
Even know that spring has come."

The Hilltop Bakery was full of bustling workers in yellow shirts getting ready for the 9:00 morning rush. I moseyed in, oblivious to the noise that was drowned out by my headphones. This day, as everyday, I desired a bagel. Walking up to the cage that held the bagels, I felt like a diamond miner from years past as he stumbles upon mounds of diamonds—before me, yet behind the clear plastic protecting them from the outside world, were mounds and mounds of bagels. Since it was only 8:25,and the rest of the student body was surely fast asleep, I was one of the first visitors to the bakery and had my pick of any flavor I so desired. Just my luck, thought I, two hundred plain bagels, but not a single poppy seed. Be that as it may, I continued to myself, I have five minutes to get to class and cannot spend extra time dillydallying over my choice of bagels. I picked a cinnamon-raison bagel out from the bottom of the pile, put it in a white baggy, and paid the ungodly dollar twenty-two a single bagel costs these days.

In the following minutes I made my way, bagel bag in hand, to the village of hideousness to look at the stone upon which is perched a rabbit-donkey hybrid deep in thought. I found the stone just a few steps from the Mallinckrodt exit, half buried by construction equipment. According to the Mighty Mark Wrighton, this stone was not erected or placed with tuition money, but rather was a gift from the sculptor who then proceeded to pay for its installation. I thought the story was all together unbelievable.
 

The blistering hands
Of rabbit building workers
How I reminisce
Of the old dying technique
And the busy-handed girls.

Crossing the woodchip path that served as a sidewalk until the construction was complete, I moved closer and closer to MacDonald Hall, the location of the day’s first class, Twentieth Century Latin American History. How I longed to be in Japanese Literature class or Japanese Language class, immersing myself in the culture the ancients spoke of, and spoke in, at length, but necessity dictated fulfillment of distribution credits.

My watch had beeped some time ago signifying that it was 8:30, but it was several minutes fast, so when I reached my classroom the dictatorial clock on the wall told me I had a minute or so to spare. I crossed the threshold of the classroom, my footsteps echoing in the silence, and took my usual seat in front of the overhead projector. I felt relieved to have accomplished my journey, and savored the silence of a near empty classroom. Soon thereafter, however, the professor entered the room, the lights shining down from the ceiling reflecting off of his baldhead, followed by a small mob of students who had made a journey similar to mine. From his brief case the professor pulled a large, slim piece of chalk and began scribbling something on the blackboard in illegible handwriting.

On this particular day, students’ term papers were due, so the professor stood patiently, arms folded together, waiting for the constant trickle of students entering the classroom to come to an end. I unzipped my knapsack, eager to hand in the beastly assignment that had kept me up for many a long night. The inside of my knapsack was dark, and I had to feel around blindly with my hand for my report contrasting Eva Peron to Lady Mao. I felt around for several minutes, yet my search yielded no results. No big deal, I said to myself, and began to empty the contents of my bag on my miniscule desk. Everything I needed for a day of learning was there, except for my term paper. Much to my chagrin and embarrassment in my haste to leave this morning I failed to double-check that this most precious of belongings was snuggled securely in my bag.

I timidly crept up to my ever patiently waiting professor and spoke thusly: "I’m sorry, sir, but I seem to have left my paper sitting on my desk when I left this morning. Where was your head child, you may be asking yourself. Well, I wish I knew, sir. I have no excuse for my clumsiness. Feel free to punish me as you deem fit. I can handle it." I then closed my eyes and braced myself for a beheading with the yardstick that was leaning against the chalkboard. I must admit here, that as I stood with fists clenched, images of the forty-six ronin that heroically committed seppuku flashed before my eyes. Maybe those who witnessed my beheading would one day recall in fond memory my bravery in death.

The professor, however, did not unleash his fury on my baseball-capped head. Rather, he told me to rush back to my dorm room to get my report and bring it back. You see, he explained, today we are doing nothing more in class than presenting our papers, so it is of great importance that you have your paper in hand today. As relieved as I was that I would be alive to turn in another paper someday, I could not help but cringe at the thought of having to make a trip back to my dorm room and then, with but a moments rest, making the return journey to main campus. Does he realize what he was asking of me, I wondered. Even so, I humbly thanked the professor for his kindness and rushed out of the doors just as the last of the tardy students made their way to their seats.

As I began my return journey, Mika, a distance acquaintance of mine, met with me and accompanied me to the rabbit. As we made our way through Mallinckrodt, much to my disappointment she diverged to the Campus Bookstore. Before she was out of reach, however, I quickly asked Mika to make a summary of the day’s happenings and leave it at the information desk in Mallinckrodt as a souvenir. She gave me a strange look, obviously not thinking of those who will make the same journey a semester later that may wish to know how an ancient like me coped in such trying times.

Though the fatigue of the long journey was lingering with me, I wanted to feel the great relief of turning in my term paper. As I marched toward the Parking Lot, I appropriately thought of Basho who wrote:

"As firmly cemented clam-shells
Fall apart in autumn,
So I must take to the road again,
Farewell, my friends."