On Yearning

I read recently that forgiveness is the "willingness to give up yearning for a better past."  

So many terms in there cry out to me to be unpacked, all English-major-101 style. "willingness." "give." "yearning." "better." "past."

And yet...I also know that my academic, convoluted, verbose manner of wanting to break down and analyze these words has it own roots---roots in a time and a place where forgiveness was not a part of my lexicon, nor of anyone else I knew.

In grad school, English majors learn about "loaded" terms, about "problematic" phrasing or word usage, and about "troubling" the norms. We learn to do these things, to engage with them and fight with them, to expound upon them for pages at a time, and to bury them under miles of contextualizing foot and end notes...all, so we think, for the sake of "clarity."

Meaning-making. That was, in many ways, the goal. Clear, true, thoughtful, new thoughts, committed to the page.

I never quite got that far in school. My work was an accurate reflection of my mind--a jumbled mess of ideas and deeply reverent thoughts on poetic language and the meanings behind words and their sentimental and historical moments...which is to say, it made sense to ME.

But writing is often meant for an audience greater than 1.

My writing never really eclipsed audiences greater than members of my seminar groups, and a few devoted fellow-soldiers in the trenches of thesis-writing hell themselves.

And for that...and for so many other things....I want to stop yearning to have done it better.

I want to be willing to give up hoping for a better past, one I did not live.

I desire the forgiveness of so many people in the world, not the least of which is myself.

The Lives of Others

I've been thinking about life. Terrible statement, I know. More specifically, I've been thinking about the lives we lead. That is to say, "We," the Comprehensive Collective of Humanity. I think we lead lives of extreme complication, ones that are messy and that are most certainly unpredictable.....

I have been revisiting some young adult fiction of yesteryear, and I came across Lois Lowry's The Giver. The book offers its audience an image of a seemingly Utopian society wherein such simple offenses like rudeness, lying, and riding Father's bike are causes for reprimand, while the problems of our own world--from war and illness to sexual promiscuity and the notion of revenge--are utterly unknown. And I must tell you that upon first glance this fictitious "community" seemed far better to my 31-year-old eyes than it ever did to the pair that sat in the back of an 8th grade English classroom. Lowry presents a world wherein pain is a virtual unknown, save a skinned knee or bashed thumb; a world where family units are nuclear in the extreme, designed by outside forces to ensure maximum compatibility; where food is provided for all in equal measure, education is compulsory and uniform for all, and "precision of language" is paramount. Oh, and one of my favorite features? In this society one's occupation is assigned by talent and inclination via exterior sources. No application or interview required.

Ok, so maybe I sound a little like a fascist-Marxist-socialist-neo-commie. But you have to admit, some of those things don't sound half bad. And yes, I know, if you read the rest of the book you learn that its characters live lives without passion, without love, and indeed, quite literally, without "color." Like any good 8th grader I know too that the moral of living life in this messy world of color and light and sound is far better than a kind of Stepford/ Pleasantville existence...yet part of me still wishes that I could weekend in Lowry's fictional community, just once.

I guess what I mean to say is that, at the moment, I am frustrated with the the lives of those around me, my own included. I ache knowing that money is tight, that jobs are scarce, that those I love are hurt or sick or lonely or afraid, and that friendships and families and marriages and relationships end.
...
Sometimes I just wish life could be less like the vivid brightness of a 72" HD screen and a little more like a battered old paperback fiction.

On Perspective: Icarus, Daedalus, and The Looker-On

I've been thinking about Icarus a lot lately.

Maybe it's because I listen to too much Bastille.

Maybe it's because I miss teaching Classics.

Maybe it's because I don't know where I "fit" into the Morality Tale that the story of Icarus is suppose to illustrate.

(For those who don't remember, the story of Icarus goes something like this:)

Daedalus was a gifted, creative, and very proud inventor who gave Greece the sail for her ships and, supposedly, originated the art of carpentry in general. He was commissioned to build the Labyrinth by Minos, King of Crete, in order to contain the Minotaur. Then, to keep the Minotaur and the maze a secret, King Minos had Daedalus (and his son Icarus) imprisoned in the tallest tower. However, respected genius that Daedalus was known to be, he set to work making a "tool" to ensure freedom for himself and his son by using string, bird feathers, and candle wax to fashion wings for the two men to use to literally fly from their captors.   

Before Daedalus and Icarus took flight for the first time in human history, Daedalus cautioned his son not to fly too high, as the heat of the sun would melt the wax, nor to fly too low, as the spray from the waves would soak and weigh down the feathers. (No lessons on flapping, coasting, or rudders required, apparently...)

Fearlessly, both men leapt from the ramparts of their prison and flew like birds, or winged gods. Daedalus maintained an even, "middle of the road" altitude, but, at some point, the boy Icarus either forgot his father's warning, decided the risk was worth it, or was perhaps so overcome by the temptations of power and height and the chance to be near to the Sun or the gods themselves that he flew high enough for the wax on his makeshift wings to melt.

Presumably, Daedalus witnessed Icarus' folly as it happened, and yet, knowing that he himself had no way to stop it, watched his son's fall, if he did not wish to suffer the same fate.


Without the aid of the wings, Icarus plummets to the sea below and drowns.

Daedalus survives.

The story goes that, after the death of Icarus, Daedalus bitterly laments his creation, and the Morality Tale the audience is encouraged to take away is to consider the long-term consequences of one's inventions with great care, lest those inventions do more harm than good--meaning not only the wings, but perhaps even so far back as Daedalus' making a wooden cow (that lead to the conception and birth of the Minotaur in the first place), or his construction of the Labyrinth.

Daedalus is, in many ways, ahead of his time; he creates something that may have negative effects on the world, be it the difficulty of solving the "puzzle" of the maze, the emotional damage of imprisoning the Minotaur, or making the ultimate sacrifice of inadvertently constructing the "tool" of wings that lead to his own son's death.

Thus, the idiom "don't fly too close to the sun" was introduced to the world, and the audience is expected to learn that tragic theme of the failure that comes at the hands of Icarus' hubris in not listening to his father.

And yet...

Somehow, I feel that the "moral" of the story has long been lost on modern ears (particularly when considering that for all the people who have heard of Icarus, a much smaller number of them can name his father, or can tell you that Daedalus is his father, if given the name out of context).

ICARUS is a name that has gone down in history. It, like Hercules or Thor means something when it is spoken. And somehow, that name does not seem to conjure up ideas about caution or duty to one's parents, however much story-tellers might want it to.

From my vantage point, I feel that Icarus is a glorified character that people remember because, goddamnit, he FLEW. At least he TRIED. At least he TOOK THE LEAP and BURNED BRIGHT, even if his flame was brief and he crashed at the end. Icarus seems to be something of a rock n' roll icon; a hero of the YOLO movement. Icarus took his life into his own hands, my man, and well, even if it ended tragically, at least he aimed for the highest possible goal before the end.

Ambition is the new Religion, so it seems. "Follow your dreams," the new God.

And I don't think that is a cult I want to join, frankly. Or, rather, I don't want to want to join it. Part of me REALLY wants to have the guts that I imagine Icarus had. Just to jump out of the prison window in the first place--! But then, how do I know what he was thinking when he looked ever upward, instead of down at the earth from whence he came? Perhaps he simply forgot himself, so wrapped up was he in the Newness of the experience of flight...

My envy of Icarus is a jealousy of freedom, of determination, of confidence, and of the thoughtlessness that is the opposite of fear.

And so, too, is my envy of Daedalus a similar kind of jealousy: I am covetous of the spark of creativity, the strength to construct, and the faith to test with all one has--not just his own life, but the life of his son.

And so, I confess, I forgot the traditional Morality Tale of Icarus, as his modern fame seems to eclipse the fact that HE DIED because he didn't follow directions! (I also think the Morality Tale of Daedalus feeling guilty for his inventions loses some of its heft when you learn that, according to some, the goddess Athena did eventually visit Daedalus and give him wings, telling him to fly like a god after all. Talk about the total opposite of Prometheus!)

In terms of divine--or even human--justice, I think I come down somewhere in between the fates of Daedalus, Icarus, and Prometheus (all three of whom are frequent subjects of classical and romantic art depicting their personal famous moments). And it is in these famous, captured, art-rendered moments that I truly consider Perspective. 

In "The Fall of Icarus" as painted by so many of the Greats, the focus is on Icarus himself--his body, his face, his fear, his fall. Or, at times, the eye is drawn to Daedalus--the father, helpless to save his son, as in Jacob Peter Gowy's "The Fall of Icarus" [seen below]. (Nice religious metaphors there, too. Good job, old masters. *clap, clap, clap*).


 



Another rendering of the famous moment that defines Icarus for all of time is unique in that Icarus is a very small feature in the grander scheme of the frame; the painting "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus," by Pieter Bruegel [see below], features a plowman in the foreground, his head bent at his work in the field, with the sea far down below, and Icarus, nothing but a drop of sun from the sky into the ocean.



I like teaching Bruegel's painting because it literally illustrates perspective (both artistically physical, as well as metaphorical) better than many other classical examples I could give. And yet, when I ask one of my favorite Socratic questions, "Who are you in the story?", I fear my own answer. I never cast myself in the role of Icarus, nor even Daedalus. I am, reluctantly, the Looker-On--the peasant, hard at work, head bent low, not always aware of the beautiful and terrible things going on around me, and yet still discontent behind my plow, kicking at rocks in the earth, wishing to thrust them at the boy, falling from on high, too close to everything. 

On Misery

"Misery," noun; "a state or feeling of great distress or discomfort of mind or body."

Yep. That. That is what I feel. I feel lost and adrift.

And I KNOW that I am the author of my own goddamn fate and the albatross-shooting captain of my own miserable soul.

...

I watched a TED Talk a while ago, given by a man with severe anxiety. At one point he said "I don't have stage fright, I have life fright." I couldn't agree more. I have never failed to make it through a day. I've never called in "sad" or "scared" or "afraid" to work. I'm a dependable, reliable, smiling, friendly employee. I work hard.

And it's such fucking hard work, is life. Getting out of bed is hard. I regularly have to logic myself into brushing my teeth, showering, and doing laundry.

I've been better of late, in some ways: I eat regularly. But I usually feel the desire to "edit undo" what I've just eaten. Meal planning and cooking and spending the necessary time and money and energy needed to "eat healthy" gives me anxiety, so I make the instant gratification poor choices of The Poor, then berate myself for it. I also joined a gym and got a personal trainer. But I'm embarrassed by my physical weakness and my fat body. I fear the eyes of other patrons, the judgement of the trainer, and the lack of results in myself. Again--this results in me mentally berating myself for further failure.

I don't socialize, really. And when I do I am aware of my pessimism and negativity and general unpleasantness. I try to remove myself from all shared environments due to an internal assumption that my presence is a drain and unwanted.

Through all of this, I remember an adage from childhood that went something like, "in order to have friends, you have to be a good one," and another than declared that "you have to be your own best friend in this life." Thus, I know that I am where the buck stops with all of the above miserable shit. I am aware that it is up to me to "fix" me.

And that just makes me seethe with rage. I don't want to have to "change." I don't like the idea that I am my own "problem" to be "solved" by me, myself, and I. I was never good at trouble-shooting or problem-solving, and I am stubborn to the core.

I remember reading somewhere that one has to WANT something in order for it to transpire. I suppose that is my current hurdle. I want my circumstances to alter for the better, certainly: I want a job that pays a living wage, that gives me a sense of satisfaction, and that gives me a sense of mastery and confidence...I want a body that works, that is strong and healthy and able, not fat, sluggish, poisoned, and weak...I want a life that has meaningful friendships and love in it--I want to love others and feel loved in return, and for obligation to not be in the equation.

But do I "want" to "invest" in that job search? That "perfect," healthy body? Nope. I really, really don't. And perhaps because those rather glaring elements are insufficient in my eyes in my life right now, I see myself as pretty damn worthless. And that worthlessness makes me aware of why I don't have a social life. I doubt I'd want to spend time with or become friends with or date me, either.

So here I am. Stuck inside my own head, like I have been for...a long time. I feel misery about myself and my circumstances and not hopeful about very much at all. And I know that that's on me. Which is an annoying and heavy thing.

I wish I could just "wish" away my thoughts and feelings, if only for the benefit of the people I care about. I wish my parents and friends didn't have to put up with this depressing version of a person. I often assume that many people in my life wonder what they did to get saddled with me. I wonder the same thing....I'd say I'd go for a personality transplant, but that's not it, really--I like my few remaining interests (poetry, stories, some books, travel, theater, really good food). I like my high-brow turn of phrase. I even occasionally like my uniqueness, knowing that there is and only ever can be one of me. I think, maybe, that is for the best.

I understand the concept of a "rough patch." But I feel like the mental state of me--my mind, my heart, my soul--has been in the weeds, in the dark, in the woods, stuck in the mire, in a rough patch for...a long time. There have been respites, of course. Even long ones. But it scares me still more to realize that those respites shape themselves around relationships that have been and now are no more. I fear and loathe the idea that my sanity and salvation lie in the companionship of someone else. (Or, if I'm honest, that doesn't bother me at all, really. What bothers me is that that someone else isn't in my life right now, might never be, or--the worst possibility of all--will be some day, but will find me "all too much," "too hard," "too needy," "too frail," "too fat," or "not enough," "not smart enough," "not strong enough," "not generous enough," "not pretty enough," "not woman enough"...). I am very much aware of my shortcomings. And, being so, I struggle to "sell myself" as "valuable" to anyone--a potential employer, a potential new friend, a potential date...myself.

...

I wonder what "value" I'd have as fodder. As internal organs sold to save more significant lives, lives more "full" than my own. Every life has a "purpose," right? And while I think I've had a positive impact as a teacher once or twice, I doubt much else of me has much to offer that is of "value." I'm not really good at anything. I have no standout talents, no spiritual gifts or fruits that make me a tool for the service of others, no skills that aren't more realized and better utilized in a thousand other souls the world over.

Purposeless, am I.

Beyond that, though, I can draw very few conclusions. I can do very little in general, really.

But I can read and write and turn a phrase. So I shall continue to do so for a while yet. Reading might be my favorite skill. And while it is in no way unique to me (indeed, my critical reading skills are rudimentary at best), I nevertheless take comfort in reading the words that other people have written down and sent out into the world, printed and pressed and bound, a message in a bottle, sent to any soul that happened upon them and cared enough to lay eyes of words and say, "I felt that."

These are the words that I feel. Misery, in particular, for the most part, right now.

But there are books. There will always be words. I'm so grateful for that.

Struck

Sometimes
I'm struck
by a memory--
a desire
to use the tiny, metal, digital
extension of "me"
to call out to "you."

I want to ask
"if you could eradicate
a book from the world,
what book would you
un-write?
Why?"

The sudden
shock
of pain
strikes
my chest
at the thought of you--

the impulse
to reach
remains.

It has been hard to kill.
It is hard to keep quite.

Even now,
after so much
progress
 the impulse
to touch
to "reach" you
takes my breath away

the way
the bitter cold
of winter mornings
robs my lungs
and throat of bliss
and leaves them
 too conscience
of their own existence--

Struck by nothing
except reality.

Those. Damn. Dots.

Or, thoughts on the emotional roller coaster that is the act of watching the "typing" ellipsis dots in a text message exchange...

1.) F#$!.

2.) If anyone ever has to scratch his or her head in wonder as to why "so many young people are neurotic today" I will clarify at least a portion of that confusion by illuminating the following: like it or not, much of modern communication now takes place via text message. There are no traditional visual or physical cues or signals therein to indicate tone, physical state (tired, depressed, drunk, what have you), or to show even that the recipient has "heard" what you said and is either formulating a reply or ignoring you completely...no signal, that is, save three little grey dots that sort of pulse at you, indicating that someone has at least begun typing, allowing you the slimmest of flickers of information: someone has pressed a finger to at least one key. Me, I have been known to watch the empty text message screen on which my blue or green text now sits, waiting and hoping (often in vain) for those damn dots to appear, so rapt is my attention to this "conversation" I want to be having that is oh so very much, for the moments and longer-than-mere-moments between messages, my sole and soul-consuming focus, while all the while signals are being sent to satellites in space...just so two humans can have a simple conversation.

*3.) F#$!. 

*This last, well-chosen, oft repeated sentiment is frequently directed not at the dots themselves, nor, indeed, even at the person or persons with whom I am desperately trying to communicate. No, no. The third (and fourth. and fifth. and...so on) thought in this mental procession is, 98% of the time, directed at MY OWN DAMN SELF for a plethora of reasons, but usually boiling down to this simple truth: that which I initially wanted to say, and indeed might have said hastily and thoughtlessly in a spoken conversation has now been WRITTEN OUT IN WORDS. Words which I myself can now read back. In the voice of the person I just sent them to. Thus allowing me to imagine a thousand new tones, contexts, and assumptions that could be made based on those words that I did not, in fact, intend. This results in me having yet another minor heart attack due to fear at the sight of the previously longed-for dots, convinced as I now am that the person I am talking to has come to the correct and inevitable conclusion that I am, in fact, a horrible person and not at all witty or funny, not worth speaking to any longer, and, what is more, worthy of an almighty lettered thrashing, which he or she will dispense to dole out in all haste, hence the sudden appearance of what has now become the most frightening series of symbols in modern times: those damn, damn dots.     

Reading Raymond Carver

It has been a long time.
Grad school will do that.
Grad school and pleasure and pain.

It is strange to me that when I am at my happiest the last thing I think to do is "write" in the way that I think about "writing" as an outlet or platform for expressing the joy and bliss that I feel, and yet, when I am at my saddest, the last thing I think to do is "write" in the way that I think about "writing" as a salve or solution to sooth my lost and lonesome soul...

At this moment, though, I am no longer in grad school (having graduated. hurray....?), and I am feeling neither excessive pleasure nor excessive pain. Still, I find myself here, writing in a space that I haven't visited in quite a while.

I'm here because I want to share the thoughts in my head with a friend.
I want to say "I just had my first encounter with Raymond Carver and it reminds me of Hemingway and O'Connor and I want to know what you think and I want to talk to you about it."

I want to say other things, too. The ineffable, inexpressible things that the limits of language cannot transcend and will not permit me to express.

It has been a long time.
But maybe not long enough.
I thought, once, that I knew the measure of "enough."
I am not sure anymore.

So I will keep reading.
And hoping.
Ever in search of "enough."
Of answers.
Of that friendly voice to share book love with.

I have so much of it to give.



...It is a weird and sad thought that, as children, often the last thing we want to do is share what we have with others, yet as we grown, we are desperate to share, to give, and to belong...

On Wanting to be Heard

Hey there, Blog.

God, has it been a long time. So, so much has happened since last I wrote. So much has changed.

Being back "in school" this fall as an instructor rather than a student, I am no longer required to write, and so have fallen out of the habit, save commenting on students' papers and drafting what amounts to little more than technical instructions whenever I have to write assignment guidelines. And, much as it pains me, I admit it: I miss "school writing." I miss reading and responding to what I read and talking about what was read and what was written with my peers.

Yet here I am.

I haven't spoken to another human today. I have wanted to, ardently. And I think it's days like these--these quiet, profoundly self-filled days of reading and wanting and feeling such a profound sense of "lack"--that occasionally send me in search of a place where I feel heard.

And yet, if the past several months have taught me anything, it's that speaking can be dangerous. (Of course, silence, too, is often fraught; both actions carry so much weight. Christ, how powerful are these things, like fire and ice--each natural and beautiful and terrible in its own way).

What I guess I'm getting at is this: I miss having a reason to write. I miss writing and feeling like the words that traveled from my mind to my lips or to the page carried with them an intrinsic strength. I don't feel strong anymore. Instead, I feel sad at the loss of the confidence I once had in my own voice. I miss sharing that voice and feeling like someone else actually valued it and wanted to engage with it, to share and to question and to answer it.

And, yet again, here I am.

I now have a Master's degree, which is great, but there are perhaps more things I do not know now than I did when I began this most recent educational journey. But maybe that is the case for each journey of edification we undertake in this life--that which we set out to learn is rarely what we end up understanding.

So, newly edified in more ways than one, here I am. I believe I am in search, perhaps, not of a voice that was lost, but an altogether new one, full of fresh perspective and ideas worth sharing. (Of course, odds are that this quiet little corner of the internet will be the only place that will ever bare witness to this as-yet unfamiliar voice, but I figure here is as good a place as any. Better, maybe.)

And in the interest of pursuing "better" things, I shall leave you with a line written by an author far superior to myself which serves as the epigraph of the novel that is currently at rest upon my nightstand: "Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice" - E.M. Forster. The truth of these words sinks into me like an anchor into the ocean by the day; let us hope that life's bewilderment proves kind.   

Books are life-rafts

Tell me, friends, which are the books that saved you--
that save you
still?

Saturday

I have this theory.

I believe that grad school is designed to break the human spirit.

And, frankly, I'm not okay with that. Not even a little.

So. In order to stay human, to stay sane, and to stay me, I do things.

I go to campus on a Saturday and I sit on the northwest wall of McKee and look at the trees that are half green and half gold. I listen to the buzz of bicycles on the sidewalk. I grade a few papers or read some 19th century American poetry. I welcome the spiders and ladybugs that seem to gravitate to my spot and I don't mind that they like to watch the world from my right shoulder--I think we each understand that this is the ideal spot to be in when the sun sinks into the trees, where the cement is still warm when the best and quietest part of autumn starts to settle around us. When my hand gets so cold that I have to sit on it between underlining pages I know it's time to go. I swill the lukewarm grit in the bottom of my Starbucks cup and consider swallowing, but think better of it. I gather my pens and pencils and books and papers and stuff them in my bag. I dismount the wall, wondering if the ladybug will miss the red sweater that she looked so good on, and decide to take the long way around the building, walking in the sunny patches between the shadows cast by aspens and maples and street-lamps.

As I walk home I run through my to-do list in my head. I think about student drafts and proposal edits and midterm reports and library book due dates. I consider laundry, broiled chicken, and unloading the dishwasher. I reject each idea in turn, opting for sixteen pages of Hemingway next to my open window, the sound of raised voices and slamming car doors a fitting soundtrack to the words that live only on the page. Distracted, I fetch Dylan from the closet--I've neglected him and he reminds me of it by being out of tune on purpose, raising purple and blue streaks on my fingers in minutes. I play on despite him, and in time we remember each other and the stains of Tom Petty and Leonard Cohen reverberate around the thin walls of the room. I consider keeping my voice low and my plucking quiet--I do have neighbors. But then I remember that my neighbors are college students and I forgive myself. Again and again I forgive myself for the missed fret and the bent chord. I play on. Badly, poorly, and with abandon. I strum the same chords again and again like I want to hear the track on repeat. Calm seeps in through the open window like the darkening sky and my fingers begin to relax. I let the music fade.

I think about obligations and e-mails, highlighters and post-it notes.

And so I let myself dream.

I dream about Libby's face when she laughs, and how she can make me laugh with the squint of her eyes and the twitch of her nose. I think about my student who calls me "Ma'am" because I call him "Sir" and about his progress this semester, and how, in spite of everything, I am proud of my students. I dream about how much I love my dog, and how I know a golden looks most noble in the light that bounces off of fallen leaves. I consider the black bananas in my kitchen and how my love of cooking and my need to write could be two sides of the same coin of passion. I think about how watching YouTube clips of the 1980 Olympic hockey team is a kind of salve for the soul, and that, for me, a few hours "lost" to old footage of Charlie Chaplin or Fry and Laurie is not loss, but gain of the healthiest kind. I think about how lucky and blessed I am to have the parents and teachers and friends that I have, to know them and to like them as people, and to know that they like me too. I visualize the experience of eating an apple, and how biting it and hearing it be bitten are pleasures that need each other, and about how so many of my best memories revolve around apples. There is something dangerous and vulnerable and comforting and terribly, beautifully domestic about cutting apples. Something about slicing and coring and peeling an apple feels like surgery. It is creation, and the most organic kind of prayer.

Tonight, to keep myself sane, to keep the dream of a life with more guitar chord than letter grades, more paperback novels than client forms, and more nourishment than deprivation, I type these words while eating apples. The words and the flesh of the fruit bring a peace that surpasses understanding. And as night crosses over into day, I washing my dishes, content to read the lines on my hands through the rushing water.