It started to rain while I was driving home from grocery shopping this evening. Little drops-- the gentle rain, the Oregon rain, the kind I like sitting outside and thinking in-- fell on my windshield. I had taken Scholls Ferry Road home, instead of 217, because I wanted the darkness, or maybe the solitude, or maybe something I can't really find on deserted roads but keep looking for anyways.
And why do we keep looking, after the sun has gone down, after we know it's gone, after we become enthralled and captivated and completed by the starlight, after all this and so much more, why do we keep looking?
The raindrops sparkled for a moment as they splashed across my windshield, and then disappeared in the darkness. They sat there, on the glass-- I wasn't using my wipers, and knew they had to be there still-- out of sight, but, somehow, not out of mind. And the sparkles were so pretty, and I wished they would last just a little bit longer, just a little while so that I could--
And what would I do? What would I say? I turned up Angie Aparo a little bit more, trying to drown out the darkness and solitude and anger I never really wanted to feel anyways. Yes. I lied.
Or maybe you did. Or maybe this was all just something that happened, like the things before, and the things after, and the things in between.
But I've known some horrible people, and I've known people that have done some horrible things to me, and you fit into neither of those categories.
Erase. Rewind. Reconsider. Stop.
That yearning. For the places and people we still care deeply for, even when it's dark, and raining, and the large green highway signs seem like the only thing, save the pain and yearning in our chest, that connects us. For a future that isn't isolated and unresolved. For a chance to say thank you to the people who most deserve it. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to forget.
I'm tired of singing
All the sad songs in my head
But I can't find enough of anything
To drown out what you said
- Matt Nathanson
I'm so tired of oscillating between these undefined feelings of incompleteness and uncertainty. Of wanting an apology and wanting what's mine back. Maybe you could start with that piece of my mitral valve. I still need it, you know. I need it to move the blood, oxygenated and ready and waiting, along home. Where the fireplace and oatmeal raisin cookies and smells of mango and happiness are waiting. Where I can look out into the distant dark, and watch the trains move along, humming the sad songs in straight time. Where I can look inside, and find all that there ever was, waiting once again. Where I can find the stillness in that way that is not altogether sad, but rather reminds us that we're older, and, though our records may crack, though we'll end up throwing away birthday cards, though we'll never really know, can still wake up and watch the sun rise.
Under the streetlight, down by the water
Don't worry baby, it's nothing you ever knew
If it makes you feel better, throw down a quarter
Don't worry baby, it won't stick to your shoes
- Angie Aparo
Sometimes, I think I could drown in this place of familiar feelings and promises I promised I wouldn't promise again. How it hangs over my head, and I'm going under, and can't stop. How I gasp for water, because it feels so normal, so safe, so desirable to drown once again. How I still try to hold onto the new memories and bright lights and whispers in the dark, but they always seem to be connected to the lifeguard who can't swim, to whom I don't want to drown with me. How the time is never now when we're looking back, and faded.
Breathe in the quiet regret you promised that you wouldn't feel. Breathe out the moments you can't have back anyways. Whisper, "Goodnight," like all the nights before, and mean it, too, once again, because forgiveness is hard enough without being cast aside like an empty bottle of Monarch gin.
Whisper, too, the words you don't yet believe, but know, somewhere, somehow, you should. Whisper them faintly, when the lights are off, and the contacts are out, and the bed turned down, and everything else is still and silent. Whisper them to the train tracks, to the piano melodies, to the tears you still know will come. Whisper them while thinking of the memories, and saturations, and smell of Chicago in the morning. Whisper them without regret.
"I forgive you, Sean."
I got home last night, after spending nearly two hours of the afternoon on the I-5 parking lot. The 85-degree weather joined forces with the appalling pollen count, and, with the aid of black vinyl seats and mis-addressed packages, I just felt miserable.
Maybe my misery had nothing to do with all of that, though. It was the end of a long week. Or three weeks. Or three-- anyways... the days go by so fast, don't they?
And all I wanted was to finish off the bottle of gin in the freezer.
I was on call, though, and had already been sent two night orders. And that was good, really, because I like driving around at night. Especially at times like those.
Times like those. The times when I play "This Is a Fire Door Never Leave Open" on repeat as loud as I can stand, and sometimes even louder still. The times when I try to find the fastest road to drive on, because all I want is the scenery around me to feel as fleeting as everything else of seeming importance. The times when a reasonable mother might say, "Don't go out when you're feeling like that. You'll get yourself into an accident."
I heard someone say something like that once.
Today is full of much of the same. I've thought about driving down to Corvallis, finding a corner at the Interzone, and just watching people and life float by. I've thought about calling Jen, and babbling about obfuscated metaphors and guarded references. I've thought about opening up the freezer. Or maybe just trying to get that LED to blink.
My glasses broke, too. I wonder if someone is trying to tell me something.
Sometimes, on a glass window or polished floor, out of the corner of your eye, you see a face, or a feeling, or a fragment of a memory that just won't die, and it fixes you in that formulated phrase. Of whether there is time enough, or not; of whether the train has passed you by, or merely late; of whether the deck, sanded and stained, will ever feel new, or if it just needs to be thrown out with all the dirt in the vacuum bag.
In cleaning my mom's house during the past two weeks I've taken out dozens of bags of trash and recycling. When trash is like that, when it piles up visibly, in the open, and not yours, it's easy to get rid of. You don't think about everything that comes with the trash and everything that leaves with the trash. You don't think about the trash much at all, save how the dirt makes you sneeze and gag and wish it wasn't there.
Maybe if I was better at writing, I could put all my trash out onto college-ruled paper, and have someone-- a loved one, perhaps-- throw it out for me. I've tried, but the words all come out wrong, and the wrong words just seem to add to the trash. And so all I have now is this breathing in of failing to describe the feeling, and this breathing out of remembering this is what the living do. All I have now is the sound of trains passing by all night long, and the sight of reflections on the television. All I have now is a feeling that I'm looking for forgiveness in all the wrong places and faith that I'll be able to forcefully answer the megaphones in helicopters asking, "Hey, are you ok?"
Yes.
The years of dust. The unopened certified mail. The half used prescription pills. The birthday cards from her sons. I stop every few minutes, while cleaning my mom's house, and fall-- sometimes into deep thought, and sometimes into an emotional abyss. Sometimes, I just fall.
Maybe it's because she's been particularly absent, forgetting both Christmas and my birthday, but over the past year, I've been thinking more and more about what's happening to my mom. The years passing by without fail, her body following the silent footsteps of her mind as they both wear thin at the edges, the glimmer of what might be that turns into the tear of what could have been.
On all of the onramps and offramps throughout Portland, beggars make camp throughout the day, pleading for change with their crude cardboard signs of misspellings and humility. I hand a man-- he looks about my mom's age-- a quarter and two nickels, and he raises his head just enough so that our eyes meet. He mouths a God Bless, and hobbles back to the side of the road.
Martin: Toby, if we start pulling strings like this, you don't think every homeless veteran will come out of the woodwork?In an episode of Sports Night, Danny repeats the common argument against giving money to the homeless: "You're not afraid they're gonna spend it on booze?"
Toby: I can only hope, sir.
-The West Wing
Isaac replies, "I'm hoping they're gonna spend it on booze. Look, Danny, these people, most of them, it's not like they're one hot meal from turning it around. For most of them, the clock's pretty much run out. They'll be home soon enough. What's wrong with giving 'em a little Novocain to get 'em through the night?"
I see the man through the rear view mirror. I can't imagine I could ever have the strength to do what he does. To stand there, to look up enough to meet someone's eye, to take the coins and buy something-- food, alcohol, drugs... anything-- it seems beyond what I'm capable of.
This weekend I got a letter from my mom-- the first time I've heard from her in nearly a year. She "didn't have my address or phone number"-- I've lived in the same apartment for a year and a half, and had the same phone number for over three years-- and couldn't contact me. After a few lines, I had to stop and find a corner to sit down in.
The people on the ramps, the dozens I see every day, they seem so far removed from my life. I gave them a few coins from the $135 I made today. I drank from water I pulled out from my little cooler, while they drink from bottles that have sat in the sun all day long. I drove away from each of them at 65 MPH, and they stand, with crutches, and canes, and fragments of humanity. They seem so far away... until I think of my mom. And it seems, then, the line that separates my mom from them is so small that I'm caught with a feeling, a fear perhaps, of connection. But it's not just my mom, with her illness and insecurity, that connects me to those people on the side of the road.
At the downtown Stumptown Coffee Roasters, John Brodie's "Signs, Desperate" collection is being featured right now.
"Signs, Desperate” grew out of glimpsing a middle-aged, apparently middle class person standing on a corner holding a sign. I didn’t see what the sign said, but after thinking about what it could have said, realized the sentiment was relatively irrelevant. Basically, all it needs to say is “ON A CORNER HOLDING A SIGN, PLEASE HELP.” That pretty much explains the situation. This inspired me to make my own signs which could explain my or others present situation, in various states of revelation, which may or may not be in need of help.
We all hold signs. Most aren't asking for help, directly-- our culture isn't like that-- but the signs are there, in our hands, in our eyes, in our memories that appear when we walk the train tracks at night. I've been thinking about my signs lately: the LEDs that won't light up, the road signs that haunt me, the books that sit by my bed. I should find some cardboard to make my signs, to hold my signs, to hold me.
Or maybe I've already found it. Not made from a collection of fibres, but from a collection of people. Not drawn with a black magic marker, but with words and sounds and sentiments shared. I guess, too, I'm more open than I imagine I am-- than I imagine I could ever be.
Some people need help. Some people don't. And some people don't know. But it's something to realize you're standing on the corner, holding a sign.
Sometimes, phrases grip me. "I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right." "Experience your America." "And we lied about the things we would feel when we're older." "And I'd like to fall asleep to beat of you breathing."
"This is it... What you called that yearning."
They grip me with a cherishing so deep that I'm left, as Marie Howe writes, speechless.
That yearning. I always think of that yearning in terms of the familiar symbols: the dangerous smell of Drano; the difficult phone call; the letter that sits on the coffee table; the song lyrics that repeat over and over in my head. That yearning binds me up and reaches into my soul, depositing and withdrawing feelings with reckless abandon and without keeping score. I used to think that I came out of the exchange with less-- less feeling, less hope, less of my soul. I seemed to lose at life, and was haunted by the memories of what used to be. I wanted to live there-- not in the past, but in the memory of the past.
I see differently now. I still long for that cherishing, that yearning, but because it helps me to see how alive I am, and how much I love this, love what is happening now, and love who I am. How I love the good and love the bad, because, in the end, it all becomes me.
3350 miles. 89 hours. A whole lotta feeling. This trip was filled with that yearning, with that cherishing so deep of the joys and pains and hopes and memories that come with being part of the living.
I like long drives: the open road, the solitude, the blaring music, the changing landscapes, the strange sounds, the long silences... and that yearning that becomes especially apparent. I like being able to remember the things, memories sweet and horrid, that have become the mileposts in my life. I like to savor those mileposts, the mileposts that form that yearning.
"Why aren't you crying?" Jen asked me on Tuesday afternoon.
I didn't know. I was sad, yes, and dreading that goodbye, but I didn't feel like crying. "I don't know." I looked away.
"Because you're a guy," she offered.
Yes. Yes, I am. But I still cry. I cry with movies, and with songs; I cry after classes, and after reading the news; I cry a lot, and I have no problems with that. It wasn't because I am a guy. "Maybe."
Later, as Rt. 2 spun off from I-91, I watched her car drift off, watched her waving goodbye, watched her blow me a last kiss. And then they came. They get in the way while driving, and I hate that. But still, they insisted on flowing, and all I could do was turn up the music a little more.
That yearning. For the people we desperately want around, the people we desperately miss, the people we hope to hold again. That yearning that hurts because we bother to love.
I drove through PA, with the shitty roads, and bad weather, and trucks that act like Boston cabbies, listening to Angie Aparo loudly. I love Angie Aparo. It was pure chance that I learned about him-- Lupe just happened to stop by and mention him one day-- and now I desperately want everything he's ever done. Life is full of those little chances, hidden amongst the rubble, we happened to win.
Like meeting Lupe, too. And Liene. The people who climb into my heart through the back window, unnoticed until I realize how much I miss them. The people who seep into more and more of my life, influencing my vernacular, my outlook, and my Winamp playlists. Those little chances I've won.
That yearning. How I missed friends I care so much about, yet spend so little time with. How I wanted to drive south just a bit, and say hi. Maybe eat a sandwich, maybe miss a mutual friend, maybe just sit around and drink shots until we're piss drunk and carefree. That yearning that hurts because we bother to care.
It's the third biggest city in the country, and of course I expected to pass several signs directing me there. But they kept popping up, one after another, for over 1000 miles along my route. Reminding me of that yearning. It's seems, sometimes, like I've had more than my share of friends who stop talking to me for reasons I don't quite understand.
I don't think I'm a horrible person. Once in a while, I don't even think I'm all that bad. So what is it, what is it about me, that is so wrong, that drives people away? This isn't a cry in the dark. This isn't an angst-filled question. Most of the time, I don't really believe it's me at all. Maybe that's self-delusional, and maybe I'm missing something painfully obviously. I don't think so, though. I'm not the best friend in the world, but I try wicked hard, and don't turn out half-bad most of the time. I think, in the end, most of my friends appreciate me. So why can't I let go of those few who don't?
I miss her so much. I want to know what she thought about the season finale of the West Wing; I want to hear more stories about her crazy/ evil/ insane roommate; I want to ask if anything amazing has happened in her life since last we talked, if only so I share the amazing things that have happened in mine-- happened because of her; I want to know she is well, and doesn't regret knowing me.
That yearning. For the places and people we still care deeply for, even when it's dark, and raining, and the large green highway signs seem like the only thing, save the pain and yearning in our chest, that connects us. For a future that isn't isolated and unresolved. For a chance to say thank you to the people who most deserve it. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to forget.
The first urban traffic I encountered was near Spokane, on my last day of driving. Somehow, by chance, I had avoided urban rush hour traffic through my entire journey (though taking I-70 across the Midwest, instead of I-80, certainly helped). I had only been to Spokane once before, when I was 11 or 12, I think. My mom had picked my brother and me up for the weekend, as usual, but instead of taking the 217 exit, we continued onto I-84. "Where are we going?" my brother and I enquired.
"It's a surprise."
It was one of the only vacations I can ever remember taking with my mom. We ended up visiting a Native American museum that was closing-- my mom had read about it in the paper--and, as the trip took 8 hours each way, not much else. Still, I miss that. And I miss my mom. It's been almost a year since I last talked to her, and several years, now, since a conversation didn't hurt enough afterwards that I regretted having it.
That yearning. How we long for the warmer days that exist only through the fragmented lens of memory. How we hope and wish and pray and try anything-- anything at all-- to ease the life-sucking pain afflicting our loved ones. How we try to find that balance between living our own lives, and not leaving behind the people we know we should love. That yearning that hurts because we refuse to give up on the people who have already given up on themselves.
The sun had already set as I sped across the Columbia River Bridge at Umatilla. Oregon, at last. The gentle bumping of the tires over the concrete slabs, the crisscross of green steel passing me by on each side, the "Welcome to Oregon" sign I barely caught as it blurred by. It was the blurring of the sign, how the visits here had become less frequent, and quicker, and how I seemed to be able to form less and less of a picture, that gripped me with that cherishing so deep.
That yearning. For the rain and the mountains and the trees and the sky. For the beach, and the Interzone, and the people whose faces we know. For the high unemployment and above-average gas prices and daffodils that bloom in February. That yearning that hurts because I know I would give it all up to be 3350 miles away.
These yearnings along the way-- these yearnings that hurt-- fix me in a formulated phrase. And how should I begin?
They hurt because being alive hurts. That pain is how we know that we've made difficult decisions along the way, struggled with the agony of options presented, and we now live with those choices. It's not a negative pain, either, or one that takes our soul, piece by piece, and gives nothing in return. It's a pain that teaches us, guides us, and shows us that we can move forward without losing everything. It's a pain that reminds us we can still care, deeply, for the places and people we know. It's a pain tells us we are living, and that this is what the living do.
We sit at the rest stop, and as the Gorge winds blow just right, we hear the sound of trains echoing through the darkness. The trucks rumble by, and we softly hum a sound not unlike the beating of the breathing of the people who we love. We fall asleep with the blanket and the pillow and the cherishing-- that yearning for the everyday-- that grips us, and leaves us speechless.
I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right, I
Remember everything, lick and thread this string
That will never mend you or tailor more
Than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the fire-door
That we kept propping open
And I love this place; the enormous sky
And the faces, hands that I'm haunted by
So why can't I forgive these buildings
These frameworks labeled Home
-The Weakerthans
I didn't think I'd make friends at Marlboro. It's hard for me, caught in that vicious cycle of not talking to people I don't trust, and not trusting people I don't know, and not knowing people I don't talk to. I went almost a whole year without interacting with anyone at Marlboro on a personal level. And I hated it.
People sometimes ask me why I came back after my first term, if I hated being here so much, and I don't really have an answer. Maybe I didn't want to disappoint the people who believed I could make it out here; maybe I didn't know where else to go; maybe it was, as I oftentimes think, just a big mistake. I certainly wasn't happy about the beginning of my second term:
I have to go in and register tomorrow. (First, though, I have to get out a map of the campus and find out where I'm supposed to go.) I usually like new beginnings, particularly the start of a new term: new classes, new professors, new things to learn; they usually outweigh the anxiety I feel about new places and new people.
Things are different this term. For the first time I can remember, I'm not excited about starting anew. I don't know if it's just depression, or if it's apathy, or if I have just gotten tired of walking the same old streets for so long. I slept nearly the whole day-- this, after sleeping for twelve hours last night. I'm worn out, and I need a break. Not from school, or work, or "this;" I need a break from me.
It turned out to be a really shitty term. I hated most of my classes-- especially the ones that left me crying. I hated the walk up the hill to the library. I hated having to go to the dining hall to have meetings with my professors over lunch. I hated it all.
I love my computer
You make me feel alright
Every waking hour
and every lonely night
-Bad Religion
I found things to love, though: books that weren't assigned, 130 hours of the West Wing... the Internet. I've always loved the Internet, of course. I remember those late nights in middle and high school, getting lost in the wealth of information available to me over that boxy 9600 modem with the string of Christmas-colored lights. I remember the shiny new 33.6 modem that slide into the empty PCI slot and let me load pages like there was no tomorrow. I remember my first cable modem, bright and white, and how I thought I didn't need anything else in the world.
I've read blogs all along-- even before they were called blogs. Something about the humanness of the interaction, being able to read into someone's life, learn about someone's personality, has always attracted me. How people shroud emotion and learning and life in words and metaphors and glimpses of silent moments. How there's never enough, and always too much. How they make me laugh, and cry, and fall in love. How I meet people who turn out to be closer than the solitary digital connection might suggest.
Random comments about auditory crack, Christmas presents from far away, cookies and chocolates and feelings that come, and go, and come again. Connect the dots, fill in the blanks, fast forward.
The sound of packing tape being pulled off the roll, the heavy lifting of boxes and junk down stairways and dusty roads, the good-bye hugs that never last as long as you want or hope or need them to last, the tears that are hidden until the words form themselves here.
The downside to making new friends is, of course, the good-byes. Good-byes to the people, good-byes to the buildings, good-byes to the life that coalesced while I wasn't watching. There's still one more good-bye, too-- one that I'm not ready for, and probably won't be when the time comes. I'm sad to leave Vermont this summer.
I'm excited, for sure, to see Oregon again. To visit LB, and eat brunch at the Interzone, and live in the same city as my best friend. To see the mountains, and the ocean, and all the places I miss. To just be there, again. And I'm sure it will be nice.
But I'll miss this place. I'll miss home.
We woke up early, considering, and the room was warm. It's always warm in here, when the window has been closed all night, and the sun has been up for a while, shining through the east window that stretches from wall to wall, and the beatings of two hearts have punctuated the darkness for so long. I'm okay with the warmth.
"Hungry?" I ask.
"Mmm hmm."
Blueberries. Blueberries are my favorite. I add frozen blueberries to the scone mix I packed along. I seem to be doing that a lot, lately. Packing, I mean; packing things up, and bringing them along. When I made a category for Jen yesterday, to better organize my entries because I'm odd like that, I noticed that basically every entry in the past three weeks has been about her. Then I realized, on an hour-for-hour level, I've probably spent at least 50% of my time during those past three weeks in her dorm.
I see my clothes starting to linger in her closet, though I wonder if I'm leaving them by accident, or if she's really just stealing them on purpose. She does hilarious and sweet things like that.
The scones are toasty and sweet smelling. The oatmeal bubbles away, punctuated by the rehydrating bing cherries, and swirls of brown sugar. A banana is broken cleanly in two.
Two is a nice number, I think.
Breakfast. Movie. Bed. It's always seemed like a nice way to spend a Saturday morning, in theory, but I really had no idea. Disappointment was not in my vocabulary this morning.
Crumbles from the scones line the Powerpuff Girls plate, traces of soy milk grace the Veggie Tales bowl, still-warm coffee sits in my LBCC thermos.
It's been a good morning, and I'm happy. I'm light, too, and in love. I look over, I look into her eyes, I look to see if she knows, I look to see if she believes.
I think, maybe, sometimes, she does. When she's dreaming, perhaps. And then she wakes, I imagine, and looks over at me, and doubts, and wonders why, and convinces herself, somehow, she is wrong.
I wish she wouldn't do that so much.
Later in the day, I discover that I had bookmarked her old Livejournal sometime last year. In February, I think. I remember reading it, too, and then wondering why she stopped writing. I remember wondering about who she was.
Life is strange, and circular, and congruent, and unexpected.
She was in the Town Crier last term, too. Campaigning for Dean, I think. I read about people in the Town Crier all the time, people I don't know, and I go to the Marlboro directory and look up their photo. It helps me believe that I know people at this tiny Liberal Arts school where I don't actually know people. I remember looking at her photo. She's not fond of it, but, at the time, I thought she was cute. (I still do, of course.) Our biggest disagreements seem to be about her.
I wish she would agree with me more.
I rewrote the second email I sent her, twice, so that I could fit in, parenthetically, an open invitation to dinner. I tried to be subtle, tried not to look like I was trying too hard, but I had a crush on her, even then. I'm crazy like that, I guess. But how could I not? With her randomness, and veganness, and cute crush on the French boy. With her talk of vegan cheese, and her talk of me. With the curious and furious affections that follow us around.
I was crazy, too, when I couldn't wait two days, after meeting her, for our first date (that I wasn't even sure was a date at all). I made pitas, and hummus, and dropped by her room. "It's not that far." "I had them lying around."
I'm terrible at these things.
How we waste our precious time
Marching in the picket lines
That surround those striking hearts
And we know who we should love
But we're never certain how
-The Weakerthans
I don't really think I'm good with explaining how I feel. I try and try, but my meaning never comes across close enough to how I intend it. Hours of inconsequential and important talk; four page emails; the unspoken sentiments of cooking dinner every night; the three words muttered and lingered upon at then end of every phone call.
I don't think she gets it, entirely. I don't think she understands, fully. I don't think she believes, completely.
I really should try harder.
Sometimes, Life gets in the way of patterns and process and certainty. Sometimes, Life is distracting and full of unexpected moments. Sometimes, Life makes it hard to be jaded and miserable and alone.
I haven't written much here for the past week. I have several half finished essays, things I really wanted to write about, but I put them off, and they look different now-- so very different. It's a nice feeling, though: a reminder that texts, what we write or say or experience, aren't static and unchanging. They constantly take on new meanings and change trajectories. Texts are dynamic and interpretative.
One of my entries was about my struggle to write my Plan papers:
I've been sleeping better and less, feeling more content and sad, trying to follow the straight lines as they circle round and round. I've been feeling guilty this week for writing in my new paper journal, for blogging here, for thinking about the things I care about and make me happy and lead me to where I want to go.
I've started writing my papers for school, but they feel so forced and impersonal and passive. And that's the way it's supposed to be, right? I shouldn't fill my paper with overt uncertainty and self-reflection, because it's just not academic; it's not the way it's done; it doesn't fit the mold. Mold. Disintegrated organic matter, stale, historical, old. Mold, indeed. Even the uncertainty and self-reflection I relegate to the introduction seems forced, distanced, controlled-- moldy.
The Tibetan issue, regarding independence, regarding identity, regarding moral choices for future action, is complex, multifaceted, and, much to the detriment of dialogue, highly polarized. As such, it is difficult, particularly for a student in the West, to sift through the varying positions of the debate, or even identify distinct positions at all, and try to settle issues of "what happened" or "who did what." Parsimony is a much-hailed outcome for political scientists, but it always comes at the expense of detail and complexity. To the extent to which details and complexities inhibit dialogue, parsimony is beneficial to understanding. But taken too far, it moves issues outside their context, exacerbates exclusion and Otherness, and leaves unanswered the most important questions, which are invariably predicated on complexity and uncertainty.
I speak of "a student in the West," but what the hell does that mean? I've jumped from cookie-cutter positivism to cookie-cutter post-modernism? What the hell does any of this mean? Why the hell am I writing these papers at all?
When Marx critiques the capitalist model, one of his approaches is from the vantage point of alienation. When we create something, make something, write something that isn't for ourselves, isn't for what we want, we don't connect to it, and the process leaves us feeling empty, automated, and inhuman. We're alienated not just from our labor, and from the products of our labor, but also from ourselves, our humanity. And that's exactly how I feel when I write these papers. Each line is a forced flow of factoids; the paragraphs are sewn together with arbitrary and awkward segues. And in the end, I've said nothing that matters to me.
I want to write things that matter to me. I want to write things that are true to me. I want to write things that make me feel something, or at least capture, in some small way, the things that I am feeling. I want to screw this school shit and move to Montana.
But I don't, of course-- at least not completely. I'm connected to, invested in part of the normalized way of thinking. I am complicit in my own surveillance, my own control. When I blog instead of write my school papers, I feel guilty. This is, of course, Foucault's critique: power is omnipresent, with multiple points of control, most notably on the sub-individual level. I don't need Seth or Lynette to yell at me for not writing, I feel bad already; the discipline and punishment is self-discipline and self-punishment. I am my own keeper; I am my own oppressor.
Foucault's world is deterministic and static. Power (and thus control) is everywhere, and acts everywhere. But what of agency? What of choice? I'm not comfortable living in a world so dystopian, so constricting, so depressing as Foucault makes ours out to be. I think the world is what we make of it, to an extent, and I don't want to make it follow Foucault's.
As I was writing that, I was thinking, as an aside, how easy it is to blog, to write about things that are important or meaningful to me. I could easily write several pages a night, if I wanted, yet I can't seem to write these papers for school. I can't seem to form my writing into that mold. I talked to Meg about my problem today, because Meg is awesome and makes my world go 'round. She invariably ends up saying the things I think about, but don't feel empowered enough to say or commit to. And today, per usual, she put my problem in terms of voice. I can't fit my voice into that academic model anymore, I can't force my writing to fit the mold. And so, perhaps, I should use another voice, a voice I'm more comfortable with. This voice, here.
There is a story to tell about China and Tibet, and it's not my story. I can't objectify it, or "study" it, though, because I'm not objective, and neither are my sources. But I can't confine that story to relativism, either, because the story is important, and it means something to me. That meaning to me becomes, itself, another story-- the story of my experience with the Sino-Tibetan story. That story is meaningful, intimate, and what I know; that story is what I can write about.
Another was about a girl:
Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams
And the silence knows what your silence means
And your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them)
Are linked, like days, together
-The Weakerthans
She smiles at me for hours. I sit in the steel chair for just as long. We wonder, in our selective silence, if the other knows what we're thinking, if we are both playing the same Wittgensteinian language game. Does he know that I smile profusely because I don't know what else to say? Does she know that I sit in the uncomfortable chair because I don't want to leave? We sit alone, together, and watch the wall, and wonder what it means. And then we wonder why we're wondering, and wonder if we'll always just wonder.
Why does it take so long? Why does it take me weeks to know someone well enough to say, "hi"? Why does it take me months, or years even, to say, "Hey! You're funny, and caring, and wicked cute, and I wish you'd stop by more often"? Why can't I just buy into a language game, knowing that, yeah, it might suck, and I might misinterpret something, and your smile might not mean what my smile means, but maybe-- just maybe-- it might not suck, and I might be right about something, and your smile might mean what my smile means?
I worry about smiles in my direction. I worry that a smile if just a smile, but I make it out to be something far greater, because it's all I know how to do when I mean something far greater. I worry, too, that a smile might be more than a smile, but there might also be something bad, something mean, something hurtful behind that smile, and I should wait a while-- and wait a while longer-- to make sure it's genuine and true and meaningful. I worry, and I hesitate, and I get caught in my silence. My anxiety and fear paints itself on my face as disinterest and lack of commitment. My anxiety and fear keeps me alone.
I like you. You like me. But how do I know you like me? How do I know this isn't just a thing, a fling? How do I know when summer comes, or graduation comes, or graduate school or work or Life comes, you won't toss me aside like a half-spent cigarette butt? I can't do these things for fun; I can't do these things simply because I'm alone and would rather not be; I can't do these things incompletely.
I worry, and I hesitate, and I get caught in my silence. I don't know how to explain that "slow" doesn't mean anything other than slow. It's not second-guessing, it's not stepping back, it's not regretting; it's just taking time, and being certain, and relating in the only way I know how to relate-- in the only way I'm comfortable relating.
I watched ESotSM again, and it made me laugh, and cry, and wonder why I worry so much. I always worry, thinking that worrying will protect me from being hurt. Invariably, I end up hurt. After the measured spoonfuls and the marmalade and tea, I still think it's worth it, after all, and I'm okay with the possibility of ending up hurt. But why do I still worry, then, if, apparently, worrying is as effective as Mary Schmich says it is. Maybe we aren't playing the same language game, and maybe it won't work out, but maybe I should stop worrying so much.
Maybe I shouldn't leave this time; maybe-- just maybe-- I should stay, and not worry.
Nobody said it was easy
It's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Oh, take me back to the start
- Coldplay
I don't go out much to places with people around. By "much," I mean "ever." I've lived in Brattleboro for almost a year and a half, and I've been to the movie theatre once and... well, that was it. I went down to a show in Northampton once, too, which I guess I should count so I don't seem entirely pathetic. It's not that I'm against going out, per se, it's just terribly terrifying going to places I don't know, drowning in the seas of anxiety and unfamiliar faces and exposed loneliness. If I were more comfortable, if I knew places better, I'm sure I would go out more.
When I lived in Corvallis, I used to hang out at the Interzone several nights a week, writing, scribbling, sketching in little notebooks I carried around. It was strangely soothing, and something I've come to miss recently. I write more now, much more, but it's always on my laptop, always at home. I miss recording those moments of people watching, those moments of staring at my Americano, those moments of shyly looking up, catching someone smiling at me, and wondering why I can't smile back. On Saturday, I bought notebook, a cheap paper notebook, and decided to try and get out more. Sit in a coffeeshop, go to the theatre (not that I would take my notebook there), the little things I enjoy, all things considered, but don't do.
The little Latchis blurb on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind caught my eye a couple weeks ago, and it looked like something I'd really like, something thought-provoking and timely, something that would make me feel good. I kept putting off going, for all the usual reasons, and had resigned myself to wait for it to come out on DVD, as I've done with so many other movies that come through the theatre. But last night, with my nifty new notebook sitting on the table, inspiring me, and thinking so much, recently, of the uncertainty and ambivalence I have towards ever-present thoughts and feelings, I went and saw it.
Oh, the irony.
I had a vague idea of what ESotSM was about; I knew it concerned trying to erase memories of love, and about the trickiness of said memories, but nothing, really, of the details. Oh, the irony. I walked into the theatre while Jim Carrey was soliloquizing on the beach, writing into his little notebook, just thinking. I sat down, sort of dazed; I don't even know when the last time I felt such affinity with a theatrical character was. I intended to write about it when I got home, but I ended up just sitting on my futon, scrawling five words into my notebook, and staring at the wall.
Memory is something I often write about here because I'm never certain what it means, why it matters, and what to do with it. It's a powerful thing, an ever-present thing. It's not just a part of us, it is us; our entire identities are constructed through experience (phenomenologically-speaking). Usually, I'm worried about getting caught up in the nostalgia, in living life looking backwards because the past seems so much more pleasant, more comfortable, more certain than the present. I'm worried about clinging to the past too hard.
My memory box is just that-- a collection of memories. Memories, perhaps like love, are bittersweet, though. For all the happiness and warmth those memories give me, they also leave me sad and longing for those times again. Sometimes, too often, I think I get lost in the nostalgia, and live through memories, rather than reality.
I usually write about the good memories, the memories I miss. But I have other memories, of course: bad memories, painful memories, memories that still haunt me in the dark. I remember lying on the floor, feeling heavier and heavier, and wishing I hadn't swallowed all those pills, after all. I remember playing with Legos in my room, pretending I didn't hear my mom screaming to no one at all. I remember getting the email from Jen, "The one you're probably not gonna like so much."
And they do. They still haunt me in the dark. Things get better with time, of course, but it's a slow process, and one that is always incomplete. Sometimes, it's non-linear, too.
It still hurts, for sure, but rather than the "blah blah blah I'm so alone blah blah blah whiny bastard" pain, it's more of the "bumper cars can hurt, for sure, but there's still fun to be had" pain... This still sucks. I'm still hurting. But things get better with time.
When I wrote that, things were getting better. And they continued to get better. And then not so much. It started on the borders of night, when I was falling asleep and waking up, the borders that kept expanding. Then there were the reminders, the things I heard, or saw, or touched, the things that were ever more present. And then came the doubts, the doubts about everything.
I am over you. I think I am over you. I wish I were over you. I am not over you.
Of course, it's much more complex than that. I don't know what I would do if she wrote me, or I found her IP addresses in my server logs, or she sent a birthday card with stickers and smiley faces and hints of her quirky wit. It's horribly complex. And there's Life, Already in Progress, too. People I've met, conversations I've had, moments I've wished I could say just a little bit more. It's horribly, horribly complex. And it seems like things are getting worse.
I've been watching as the stitches start to loosen and break at the seams. I try to forget the painful memories, push them aside. It seems better, more helpful than clinging to the pain. And the more I notice things falling apart, the harder I try to stop thinking about it, hoping, wishing it'll just go away. Like slamming on the brakes when you start to fishtail.
I've never thought that I would be interested in losing all my memories connected to something or someone. There is always so much good inextricably linked up with the bad. It's bittersweet, and that's the good news. And I know that's the good news.
I don't know why I can't seem to forgive this framework of home, knowing, feeling, on some ineffable level that I already have. I don't know why this framework of home seems so negative, so awkward, so hurtful, when in fact, viewed contextually, it's something far more beautiful, more wondrous, and more complete that it appears: it reminds me both that what I experienced, what I felt, and maybe what I still feel was as real and wonderful and blissful as I remember, and, more importantly, perhaps, that I can feel that way again.
But as I start to spin out, as I try so hard to stop, as I push the painful memories from my mind more and more, all the blissful moments go too, and I'm left feeling empty and alone and in pain. There's no beauty; there's no wonder; there's just me, in the corner. And maybe not even that, because who am I without the pain/ joy, the happiness/ sorrow I've experienced? It seems, then, I don't need to visit some doctor and have a procedure to erase my memories. I'm already doing it, by myself, in a horribly bitter manner. Ignoring painful memories, trying to forget them seems to be as bad as clinging to them.
As Jim Carrey's character realizes how beautiful, how important his memories are, he changes he mind about wanting to lose them. "Stop the procedure," he calls out. But the memories keep disappearing, and he grows more and more desperate. "Let me keep just this one," he pleads near the end.
I loved ESotSM; it was artistic, and beautiful, and thought-provoking. But rather than giving me new things to think about, I think it ended up reminding me more of, and providing contrast to, the thoughts I was already having. Memories situate us where we are, which is the aspect that the characters in ESotSM were reacting against; but I think, more importantly, and one of the themes of the film, is that memories tell us who we are, as well.
This is about embracing Pascal's agonic doubt... This is about finding my way back. This is about remembering who, not where, I am. This is about living though the space in between.
Superficially, I want things to make sense, be rational, be less complex; I want to follow Descartes' quest for a constant methodology, a consistent life: I doubt, therefore I know, therefore I think, therefore I am. But I don't really believe life is like that. (Oh my God, a disbeliever in the Enlightenment Project; run for your lives!) Life isn't simple; it isn't ordered; it isn't even consistent. There are contradictory truths, irreconcilable dialectics and an inherent uncertainty to it all. Pascal, on the other hand, was looking for something different; his doubt was encompassing, agonic. He wasn't searching for rationality like Descartes, but rather for the dynamics that make us doubtful and uncertain and human. He wanted to embrace his agonic existance, not solve it. "The Cartesian wants to be rational, while the Pascalian wants to be a person," Michael Weinstein quips.
When the truth is I miss you
Yeah, the truth is that I miss you so
And I'm tired, I should not have let you go
- Coldplay
Isn't this the best part of breaking up
Finding someone else you can't get enough of
- Liz Phair
This is the complexity. This is the doubt. This is the dialectic. This is the space in between. Living through the space in between isn't about a journey somewhere, or a hurdle to pass, or a length of time, even. It's not about anything at all. It is something. In between is the complexity. In between is the doubt. In between is the dialectic.
Living through the space in between is living life.
I've got memories
I keep them away from me
They won't behave
Won't be what I want them to be
I've seen it all and it's all done
I've been with everyone and no one
So many squandered moments
So much wasted time
So busy chasing dreams
I left myself behind
- Tindersticks
Things are breaking.
One of my windows is broken. I am exposed.
One of my speakers is broken. I am partially deaf.
One of my laptop feet is broken. I am unbalanced.
One of my headlights is broken. I am functioning improperly.
One of my chairs is broken. I am falling through.
Things are coalescing.
My tea is vibrant. I am happy.
My house is warm. I am comfortable.
My cupboard is full. I am satiated.
My coursework is cohesive. I am content.
My room is organized. I am home.
Time is moving slow. There are still five weeks left. Time is moving fast. It has already been five weeks.
There's a dialectic afoot and uncertainty in the air.
This is the space in between.
I don't know what to make of things.
I think I know what this is about. You might think so, too. We are both wrong.
this is how it happens
sticks in my hands i hesitate lost between beats there's tension like looking down from a tall building you know you're going to fall, you can't resist it's terrifying, but you want what you fear
you can't save yourself someone's got to reach out and break the spell someone's got to grab you a touch, and you shiver back into your skin, like the crack of a drum out of silence
you've got to find your way back
- Patrick Friesen, from "Singer"
Pain is such an easy thing to learn to love. It fuels late night coffee-drinking binges so I don't have to sleep, and don't have to dream; it reminds me of nostalgic pleasures, of times when its lonely and austere offices were my only recognized companions; it comforts me, in its own way, whilst I sit on my kitchen floor, thinking too much.
My rug, too, was bought on sale. It seemed like such a bargain for a comfortable place to fall down on. The little things and the cheap things, at times, provide such comfort. It seemed odd, somehow. Or maybe it is the smallness and the cheapness that occupies my attention and distracts me from real troubles. I reached over, and picked up the coffee cup, which now seemed barely warm. It was as though the coffee was holding on to the last vestige of heat ever so slightly. Everything, it seemed, was holding on, ever so slightly.
I was sitting on the floor of my kitchen, an hour after getting home from work, and a short 10 hours since I woke up. Is this all that is left? Is this all that there is? I felt cheated. When do I find out what the rest of life is like, the kind I saw in picture books on the coffee table in my dentist's office? When do I find something other than the small joy of sitting on a cheap rug, drinking not-so-cheap shade-grown coffee?
I wondered about the shade-grown coffee farmer. I wondered what he had left after the end of the day. Was he happy, getting his $1.57 a pound? Did he care? Did he have time to care? Free time is such a dialectical gift. We desire more and more free time, and yet, when it appears, we are haunted by the questions and concerns it allows. Free time, indeed-- you get, it seems, what you pay for.
I have too much free time, and too much time to think. I spend too many nights sitting here on the floor. There has to be something more dignified, something more fulfilling than this. I sipped the rest of the coffee, leaving only the sand-like particles of coffee that had slipped through the French press and ended up in the bottom of my ceramic cup. Sometimes the only things left are the things that get left behind.
Unopened books, unstarted letters, the actions I keep putting off. I want to write these papers, talk to these people, listen to the sounds of morning and not be scared. I want a pair of clean socks, and the voices of the past to calm down. It's loud in here, and I'm tired. But it's not all like this. There's the everyday, too: the curtains I hung, the books I arranged, the coffee I bought from the store. There's the pictures I put up on the wall, and the floor I washed with dangerous smelling cleaners.
This is the mad season; this is the space in between; this is when you sniff too much Drano.
Purgatory is a space in between.
Memories feed on each other, growing, with the whole weight of history behind them; I always remember the minor details. On August 31, 2001, I had my first taste of gin. It was another time in between. I had quit at Bon Appetit, and not yet started again at LBCC; I had dropped out of school, and was caught in the dialectic of wanting to go back, but being unable to concentrate, to study, to think; I was taking so many pills (thank God for $5 co-pays), but none of them seemed to be helping anything at all.
It was a Friday. A Friday night. I brought her roses; I don't know why. Maybe... maybe I'm just like that. We were drinking gin. "A little water?" "A little," I said. "No, too much," I said. "It's ok," I said.
Things happened. Things didn't happen. At the time, I never thought I would end up being the conservative one in a relationship. I never thought I would predicate certain things on some genuine assertion of love. I never thought love would turn out to be so important to me. "Do you love me?" She frowned. "Um. Yeah. Sort of. For tonight, at least. And the morning, too." I put my shoes on, and left. I called, and told her it wasn't enough. I went home and drank more gin, and thought about what might have been.
Spring forward, fall back down
I'm trying not to wonder where you are
All this time lingers undefined
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving
- The Weakerthans
Over the years, the ratio of gin to water has increased. A little bit. A splash. Now, it's just the slow dissolution of the ice cube. Gin reminds me of things I want, and can't have. Gin reminds me of things I can have, and don't want. Gin reminds me of miscommunication, and misunderstanding, and misinterpretation. Gin reminds me of the things I shouldn't miss, but miss anyways.
Over the years, the weight of gin's memory has increased. Gin after leaving Stonybrook. Gin after Cassie left. Gin after leaving LBCC. Gin after Jen left. Lots of left and lots of leaving. And wondering who did what.
This is not about a breakup. This is not about someone I miss. This is not about a bitter boy, dying in the dark.
This is about memories that cling like leeches. This is about pain that comforts like cocaine. This is about straight lines that always seem to circle. This is about the glass of gin in front of me. The glass I'm staring at. The glass that calls my name, repeating the horrors and comforts of those precious moments of pain. The glass that says, "We know you Sean. We know how you feel. We understand you. Come, sit with us again. Come, let us comfort you again. Come, be with us-- be us-- again."
This is about accepting pain's omnipresence, and saying no. This is about embracing Pascal's agonic doubt, and saying no. This is about looking at the faceted glass, the sparkling ice cube, the sweet-smelling gin, and saying no.
This is about making an appointment to have my window repaired. This is about adjusting the audio output on my speakers to make do with what I have. This is about finding a slim book to balance my laptop on. This is about getting out a screwdriver and replacing the broken light. This is about sitting on a different chair.
This is about finding my way back. This is about remembering who, not where, I am. This is about living though the space in between.
But as I'm growing older, I'm bored
I remember when misery thrilled me much more
- Ben Folds Five
This is life
What a fucked up thing we do
What a nightmare come true
Or a playground if we choose
And I choose
- The Offspring
What Time is it There? was showing at the Chinese Film Festival on campus tonight. Focusing on the mundane and absurd, it's an amazing film about grief, loneliness, and isolation. And, of course, I couldn't go see it.
It rained today-- wonderful, complete, long-lasting rain; it's been such a long time since it last rained like that. It's been a while, too, since I last sat on the roof of my car. And so, tonight, I sat on the roof of my car, in the pouring rain, soaking in the beady drops of refreshing contentment.
It's those little moments, those stolen moments that are so very blissful, so very beautiful, so very true. Everything does look perfect from far away.
Sometimes I wonder, am I wasting my time by stepping back, and losing myself in the moment? Or are those the only moments that I'm really living?
And it's strange, the dichotomy of those moments. I sit in the rain, and I know I feel happy. The feeling of the rain drops, the sound of the puddles growing, the smell of renewal-- it's all so beautiful and wonderful and exuberant. But at the same time, there are so many other things going on-- or not going on, as the case may be. My room is in a state of partial rearrangement, which is to say that it's horribly cluttered and disorganized, my homework isn't being done and I basically have five weeks now to write 75 pages on something or another, and it's possible I'm really just addicted to the rain, using it to remember things I want desperately to remember and forget things I desperately want to forget. So where does all this leave me? Am I wasting my time living those 'moments of beauty,' as it were?
Remember, life is just a memory
Remember, close your eyes and you can see
Remember, think of all that life can be
- Harry Nilsson
Next week is my birthday, and it's partially to blame, I think. I don't feel old, per se, but I definitely feel older, as it "another year has gone by." And what do I have to show for it? Moments of beauty? Moments of bliss? Moments of anguish? Moments of surrender? Is this all I have, all that's different? Fleeting moments, remembered experiences, emotions plucked out of time? Is that good? Bad? Normal? Normative?
In the end, does it matter that I sat on my car for a while, and was happy and content and felt okay?
Yeah, this is one of those existential queries. And it always ends up like this. Not so much with the Kool Aid and smurfs and what-not, but with the uncertainty and lack of trust in what I believe, in what I want, in what I know. Sometimes, I think too much.
Like a sound we notice
Until it stopped and left us there
- The Weakerthans
It's so stupid how this whole thing started, how I started slipping down this icy hill. I know better. I am better. This should be old school shit by now. Why should what other people do, or not do, bother me so much? Why should I always feel guilty about doing something wrong, when I honestly can't think of anything that I did wrong?
I think that's the hardest thing for me: to accept that some things aren't my fault. Even now, even while I'm writing this, I feel the need to write, "maybe I'm too dense to know what I did," or "I should have said this, or that, or something else entirely, instead," or "maybe this is my fault, after all." We're so mean to each other; we're so hurtful to each other; we're so disingenuous and dishonest with each other.
We should know better; we're capable of so much more. And maybe that's what the little moments of beauty teach us-- maybe that's why they're important, after all.
You have helped me in my work and in myself. And I have helped you in your work and in yourself. And I am grateful to heaven for this you-and-me.
- Kahlil Gilbran, as quoted in the journal of Mary Haskell
If I accept the sunshine and warmth I must also accept the thunder and lightning.
- Ibid.
I blame Love Actually for making this seem like a good idea. I can blame you, a little, for giving me the bloody script book, too. You know how beautiful that movie is, right? And how it makes you want to believe that love can exist? And how it makes you want to tell someone that it does exist? Like Colin Firth says, "just to check"?...
Maybe you're horrified at this point... (I wonder if Robert Browning ever worried about that sort of thing when he wrote to Elizabeth Barrett.) Anyways, even though it isn't Christmas anymore, and even if Eavan Boland is right about love never being the ideal depicted in the arts, I thought I'd, you know, just check.
- A Letter to Jen
Eavan Boland's Against Love Poetry is sitting on the floor by my table. As one might guess from the title, it's a critique of classic love poetry, an argument against the idealization and romanticization of love in traditional literature. I pulled it off the bookshelf a while back when Jen posted one of the poems, "Quarantine:"
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
It seemed, I don't know, not so Jen, and, a few days later, I asked her about it.
I don't know; I guess I always pegged you for a sap. (But, um, in a nice way, I SWEAR.) And she's, well, not so sappy. Do you have the whole book that "Quarantine" is from? There's this other poem in there, "Thanked Be Fortune," that contrasts the "reality" of marriage with the idealized version of love depicted in books above the bed; it's always made me think about love and idealism. On some level, I guess I agree that "everyday love" isn't "idealized" like in the arts, and maybe, sometimes, using "merciless inventories" is a more accurate way of talking about love than romanticizing it. But maybe that's only because we make love like that, when we take it for granted, and turn it into something everyday and ordinary. Whenever I think about real world idealized love, I think about my Martin Sheen boss. If there is anyone I know who's found perfect love, it's him and his wife. Maybe love like that IS super rare, and I'm just incredibly lucky to know them well, but it's always struck me at how much they CHOOSE to be happy and perfect.
Weeks pass, things change, and I keep looking over at Boland's book, sitting quietly on the floor, and wondering if I still feel the same way about it, about love, about things I said. I keep looking this entry over, wondering if I really, truly believed what I wrote, or if it was just some attempt, some effort, to make myself feel better, to force myself to move on.
Most of the time, I do still feel the same way: that we can choose to make things ideal, to make things perfect, to be happy. That we choose, to a large extent, to be in love, and that we, ourselves, have the power to make love as perfect or imperfect as we want. The idealism of love poetry isn't something to shun because it's not ordinary or everyday; rather, the everyday, the ordinary should be changed, altered, rethought so that it becomes special and ideal and classically Romantic.
But sometimes, I waver in my faith. I hear things, see things [Cf.], remember things, and I waver in my faith. It's not
This dichotomy, this bifurcation of my thoughts, my feelings, me-- it's so unsettling. Be happy, Sean. Be sad, Sean. Live in your misery, Sean. Forget about life and write you Plan, Sean. Say, "I'm still completely, foolishly, illogically in love," Sean. Choose something, anything-- just choose, Sean.
And it would be nice, for a while, to choose something, anything-- to pick a feeling and run with it. But it's not really like that, is it? It's not cut and dry, it's not decisive, it's not complete. These are the shades of gray we live in, the blurred outlines that define us, the shifting tense through which we exist. These are the yearnings of the everyday: uncertainty, irony, and bittersweetness. These are the moments of life, in all its wonder, and all its discomfort, in all its sureness, and all its fluidity. This is what we have.
Celina quoted part of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet yesterday, a book I haven't thought about in a long time. I picked it up, and started reading through it. Gibran's writing is so beautiful, so poignant, so insightful on some basic human level-- and yet, as is often the case, it is so simplistic in its content. Like any good Marlboro student, I hate to be on the bandwagon of conformity, but it truly is an amazing piece of work.
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
And isn't that exactly how I feel? Isn't that how I know I didn't make a mistake? Isn't that how I know I'm okay? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. Jen asked me, once, how I knew that I was in love with her. I went through the chronology, the important details, and the movement of feelings.
But I think it was when I decided that being with you, with all the horrible uncertainty and fear and possibilities for pain that comes along with a relationship, seemed to offer more promise than staying in my safe world of solitude.
The conservation of action: as completely as we give ourselves to something is as completely as we open ourselves up to its inextricably linked alter ego. And that's Gimpel's lesson, too, isn't it? That the moments of pure bliss only exist in conjunction with the possibility of less blissful moments? And that's the good news, isn't it? It's the reminder that we can feel, deeply, completely, unconditionally.
Blah blah blah, all those other things I want nothing more than to say to you right now, as you sit here in front of me, looking studious and adorable.
- Email to Jen
I know, for certain and without hesitation, that if I could feel again as I felt then, I would take this, and that, and everything in between. I know, for certain and without hesitation, the next time I fall in love will be as completely and unconditionally and idealistically as before, because I can't imagine any other way turning out better in the end. It's tempting, at times, to agree with Eavan Boland, to agree that all there is to love are 'merciless inventories' and 'duty dailyness routines;' in the end, though, I can only imagine that such thoughts would limit the potential for bliss, that such a vantage point would limit the ability for one's breath to be taken away every day.
And I love this place; the enormous sky
And the faces, hands that I'm haunted by
So why can't I forgive these buildings
These frameworks labeled "Home"?
- The Weakerthans
Writing all this out helps so much. I start off these entries feeling so uncertain, so bifurcated, so unsure about love, and living, and life. I don't know why I'm still hanging around these same old tracks, clinging to these same old memories that offer not solace, but soreness, and sitting here with the beating of my heart and all the thoughts that engenders. I don't know why I can't seem to forgive this framework of home, knowing, feeling, on some ineffable level that I already have. I don't know why this framework of home seems so negative, so awkward, so hurtful, when in fact, viewed contextually, it's something far more beautiful, more wondrous, and more complete that it appears: it reminds me both that what I experienced, what I felt, and maybe what I still feel was as real and wonderful and blissful as I remember, and, more importantly, perhaps, that I can feel that way again.
For a phone call from far away
With a, "Hi, how are you today"
And the sign recovery comes
To the broken ones
- The Weakerthans
While composing this entry, I paused for a few minutes and checked the mailbox. An envelope, with a handwritten return address-- a welcome change from the usual droppings of junk mail-- was slightly visible. I pulled it out, and smiled. It was a birthday card from Tini. How she remembered, why she even thought of me, is beyond my comprehension. And, really, it doesn't matter. It feels good to be thought of.
Recovery comes to the broken ones. And maybe other things, too.
So much for endings. Beginning are always more fun. True connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with.
That's about all that can be said for plots, which anyway are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.
Now try How and Why.
- Margaret Atwood
I think I'm getting a new camera for my birthday. OK, I know I am. It's odd, really, because I only started looking at them for fun. My parents never buy my brother or I expensive things. He's a little bitter, sometimes. They thought the Band of Brothers DVD set, which he asked for last year, was too expensive, and got him Minority Report, instead. (He hated that movie.) Our little half-sister received a digital camcorder for Christmas, and our little half brother got a Game Cube. I'm beyond caring. Or maybe I'm just happy that my parents are paying part of my tuition. It's hard to tell, really.
But this year, I'm getting a new camera. It's possible that my parents have decided to spread the wealth among us now. Maybe my little brother and sister have been bad recently, which, I suppose, makes me seem good. It could be because I let my Dad claim me as a dependent this year, which saved him almost $2000 on his taxes. Whatever it is, I'm getting a new camera.
I'm excited. I know nothing about photography, save that it's the art of photographs, but I see so many incredibly photoblogs, and so many incredible photos, and I want pictures of my own. I want pictures to supplement my words, to redefine my words, to speak my words. I want to write less, and say more; I want to write about less, and speak about more. I want something different here. I don't know How, I don't know Why-- I just want something different.
But not too different. I like this. I like it here. I look back over my archives, and this has become more and more what I want. And that's it, I guess: I don't want something different, I just want something more: more complex, more meaningful, more me. I don't want a new beginning; I want to work on the stretch in between.
And me, too-- I want more. Not more things, not more stuff-- not more of more. I want more of less, more of this, more of me. I want more of the stretch in between.
I walked a mile and a half to the waterfall. I walked a mile and a half back to the road. In between, I saw the waterfall. It's that stretch in between that makes me think, that makes me live, that makes me want more.
It's that stretch in between that we find the How and Why.
And I'm losing all these stupid games
That I swore I'd never play
And it almost feels ok
- The Weakerthans
Don't you hate it when you turn the thermostat up, and feel even colder? When you go to bed earlier, and sleep in even later? When you make the music play louder, and you still drown in the silence?
Don't you hate it when you have so much to say, and you say so little? When you try to be more honest, and you end up feeling more fake? When you tell yourself to forget, and you remember all the more?
Don't you hate it when you throw your penny in, and the only wish you can think of wishing for is that you would stop wishing for the wish you wish you didn't wish for?
I sat there for a while; sat there watching the water flow by. I sat there for a while; sat there watching the pennies sparkle under the morning sun. I sat there for a while; sat there thinking about all the people who had come before-- all the people who had wishes and hopes and dreams of their own.
I remember them. I remember them all. I remember those who wanted "Til Death Do Us Part." I remember those who wanted "Tonight Is All We Have." I remember those who wanted "Until Something Better Comes Along." I remember them, and all that they meant to me, and all that I didn't mean to them.
Harder, I think, than making It work, is making it work After It. Maybe this isn't helping; maybe, even, it's hurting. Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should relocate. Maybe I should add "deny from 140.192. / deny from 209.86." to .htaccess.
I want so much for this to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And it is, and it isn't, and it is. I want so much for this to be a relic, a memory, a thing long since past. And it isn't, and it is, and it isn't. I want so much to be able to skip ahead, and read the last page-- the last page that I'm never able to write... that I can't write.
I don't know what it is that I do, what it is about me that is so bad. I don't know why I can't figure it out, and why I can't think that maybe it's not me. I don't know how people can care so little, how they can leave me so easily and so completely.
I wish someone would whisper in my ear, "Everything's ok." I wish someone would whisper in my ear, "Isn't this stream lovely?" I wish someone would whisper in my ear, "In the end, you're not too bad."
I wish there were whispers in my ear, sentiments in my heart, dreams in my head. I sat, listening to the gentle splash as I tossed another penny in, wishing.
Is it this place that makes me fall from you
Forget the words that once rang so true
Did we expect that life was ever fair, my god
- Toad the Wet Sprocket
Because maybe this entry isn't for everyone...
...
Garage sale, Saturday, I need to pay
My heart's outstanding bills
A cracked up compass and a pocket watch
Some plastic daffodils
Cutlery and coffee cups I stole
From all-night restaurants
A sense of wonder, only slightly used
A year or two to haunt you in the dark
- The Weakerthans
I used to tell Jen that I thought about her every waking moment, many of my sleeping moments, and a few of the moments that didn't exist. And I did; I thought about her all the time. I never knew how not to, though. I don't understand how people can love incompletely, how they can keep it from consuming, in a wonderful way, their entire existence. I'm naive, of course-- I'll be the first to admit to that. I think beauty exists in every moment; I think, to a somewhat significant extent, we can choose to be happy and content; I think perfection exists in our minds alone; I think love actually is all around us.
Sometimes, I like to pretend that I'm bitter. But I'm not, really. I've tried to become bitter-- why, I can't imagine. It's not me, though. I'm cynical, yes, but mostly to mask my exuberance and optimism-- my little defense against people who might think I'm a sucker. Because I am. I am such a sucker. I am a bit like Gimpel the Fool.
I am Gimpel the fool. I don't think myself a fool. On the contrary. But that's what folks call me. They gave me the name while I was still in school. I had seven names in all: imbecile, donkey, flax-head, dope, flump, ninny, and fool. The last name stuck. What did my foolishness consist of? I was easy to take in.
- Isaac Bashevis Singer, "Gimpel the Fool"
Gimpel the Fool was naive, for sure. But, he explains, how could he not be? How could he, who was so optimistic and trusting, not believe people? How could he know, for certain, that he didn't see shadows in the dark, or that his child wasn't premature? How could he know, for certain, that honestly didn't permeate the world? And even if he had become more cautious, less trusting, more bitter, would he have been better off? He argues, at the end of his life, that he wouldn't. He had faith, and optimism, and trust in others. He was fooled a great many times, but in the end, he was happy. Happiness, as the Dalai Lama points out, is not the means to an end, but rather an end-- the end-- in of itself. Gimpel the Fool spent his entire life being derided by others. He was too trusting, too naive, too foolish. Ha! If only I could be Gimpel the Fool.
I thought about Jen all the time. And, of course, I needn't stay in the past tense. I think about her all the time. It's not that I think there's been some kind of mistake or that I'm having some sort of bad dream. It's not that I think she'll change her mind or change her heart. It's not that I'm still hoping for something that isn't there. But maybe I am. Maybe. I am. A little, subconsciously, even though I try so hard not to. I lay awake at night, going over every little word, every little gesture, every little look. I get up and check my email, knowing there won't be anything there, but not being able to not check. It's the year or two that haunts me in the dark.
Time passes. Things get better with time. Things are better. Or maybe I'm just pretending they are. Or maybe I'm just pretending to pretend they are.
These things, these thoughts, these feelings-- I don't like sharing them with others; I don't want to talk about them, I don't want to write about them, I don't want people to know I have them, hold them, still. They're not special, they're not unique, and they're not of great concern. Hearts are broken everyday. Sometimes, we break them on purpose; sometimes, we break them on accident; sometimes, they just break.
Jen was wonderful for a myriad of reasons. She gave me hope when I was running short. She made me laugh when nothing else could. She inspired me with confidence, and showed me that I had some of my own. I wouldn't trade anything that happened for the world, and I don't regret any of the time I spent with her, or for her, or because of her. That time was perfect, and I miss that perfection.
Sometimes, things just happen and hearts just break. I feel guilty for thinking, once in a while, that I'm unlucky that that happened to me. I feel angry with myself for thinking that I'd be better off if I could blame Jen for something, be angry with her over something, convince myself that somehow she broke my heart.
What the fuck? Things are too good and I'm pissed about that? I've learned, changed, grown and I'm pissed about that? My life is so much better and happier and more complete than it was six months ago and I'm pissed about that? What the hell kind of fucked up world am I trying to live in? What the hell kind of fucked up world am I trying to create for myself?
And it's strange, it really is, these fucked up realities we sometimes create for ourselves. How I try to push off, mitigate, relegate all these other good things that have happened over the last few months, the good things that are still happening. How I've been happy, and am happy, and then try to pretend it's all a facade.
This is my bitterness. This is my facade. How I try to pretend I'll miss Jen forever. How I try to pretend I'll love her forever. How I try to pretend that starting over is impossible.
Hey, I've found the safest place to keep all our tenderness
To keep all those bad ideas, to keep all our hope
It's here in the smallest bones: the feet and the inner ear
It's such an enormous thing to walk and to listen
- The Weakerthans
I've been trying to find the words for the last three weeks-- the words that shape me, the words that explain me, the words that make me whole. I couldn't find those words. I couldn't figure out how to get from where I was to where I want to be. I was stuck not wanting to check my email at 3am, but not knowing what else to do. Over the past few days, I've spent a lot of time walking and listening. And it is an enormous thing. The things I see, the things I hear, the things I think about-- they all remind me why I'm not bitter, but hopelessly optimistic, why Gimpel wasn't flawed, but gifted.
I miss Jen. I miss her witty comments, her obsession with Martin Sheen, and her Chicago accent. I still miss her, but like how I miss my other friends that aren't around much anymore, because old friends are always missed. I love Jen. I love how she made me feel, how she was a good person, and how she inspired me to do things I wouldn't have otherwise done. I still love her, but like how I love all the people I've loved before, because love isn't predicated on romantic possibilities.
"Two guys have ascended five miles into the sky. They walked up a wall of ice and are preparing to knock on the door of heaven itself. There's really no limit to what we can do. You know what the trick is? Get in the game."
- Natalie, Sports Night
Starting over seems impossible at times. How it takes so long to trust someone enough to say hi, takes so long to learn the new details and particulars and factoids, takes so long to assuage the overwhelming fear I have of human interaction. It's hard to start over. And it gets harder every time. But it's not impossible; it can't be. People have such capacity for accomplishment, such capacity for growth, such capacity for love. People have such capacity for creating new beginnings.
Did I pick these streets, or were they the only ones plowed? If the sun rose and the snow melted and I saw them for what they were, would I still want to walk along here?
Do stars dim because they are anxious about the light they provide? If they grow old, or tired, or worse, where does that leave us?
Does the future supplant the past? Are we disks of ferrite-coated ceramic, waiting patiently to be spun until we are dizzy, and altered so that yesterday never happened?
Is it worth it to examine and contemplate the meanings of the meanings of these words that we hold? Is it worth it to feel this way at all?
Those are the questions I ask, in some form or another, every time. Always the same questions, always the same doubts-- and, until I met Jen, always the same answer: I don't know. Eliot's Prufrock asked if it would be worthwhile, after all: after all the joy, all the sadness, and all the pain, after the talk of marmalade and the talk of tea, after the talk of you and the talk of me, after everything. Would it be worth is, after all, or would we wind up by the window, saying "This is not it, this is not what I meant at all." Mr. Prufrock drowned in the sea of human voices, drowned in his inability to escape his disillusionment. He said it wasn't worthwhile, after all.
He was wrong.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on.
- Mary Schmich
Inspired, in part, by one of the stories that Lynette told me last week, I decided to dig through one of my boxes of collected papers, find the addresses of some people I haven't talked to or seen in years, mostly people I worked with at Bon Appetit, and write them letters. It was oddly frightening, and exciting, and, in the end, enjoyable.
Every once in a while, I remember that I have all those addresses, and I think about writing to the people who have long disappeared from my life. I've wanted to write them, for sure. I've wanted to tell those people how much they meant to me, how I still remember them, years later. I've wondered if they would remember me at all, wondered if they ever think about me. I've wondered if they would remember the same stories as I do, wondered if they're still around, in Corvallis, in Oregon... in life. I've never gotten past what to say, what to write to them, though; I've never thought I had anything substantial worth writing them about. And it always seems to come back to the substantial, or to the concrete, at least. I have memories and thoughts and feelings, but I don't know how to transform them into something worth writing, into something worth sending. Lynette's story, though, how she "made someone's day" in an indescribable, but real nonetheless, way seemed to provide enough impetus for me to try.
As I started to write the letters, I thought about all sorts of things, abstract memories and recollections, I had forgotten: the kidnapping of my teddy bear (which I think sounds better, and more mature, in the context of the whole story), shelling two cases of hard-boiled eggs a night (432 eggs), the foil-wrapped balloon disco ball, the time my saucier pretended to cut off his hand off and freaked me out, the time my prep cook did cut his hand (not off, but it was enough for the ER) and freaked me out, the pitchers of beer "left over" from caterings.
When I left Bon Appetit, everyone signed a chef jacket for me. It's an old one, filled with stains, and blotches, and memories of work. Some people wrote nice things: "Please, oh please, don't go," and "You will always be the twinkle in my eyes." Some people wrote not-so-nice things: "I'm still upset about your birthday party," (from a woman I didn't invite) and "we'll have to go to coffee maybe," (from a girl who stood me up... twice). Some people... well, I'm STILL trying to figure out what the hell they meant (or is wrong with them): "There once was a man from Corvallis/ who thought his dick was a chalice," (from the saucier I mentioned earlier).
I look over these signed names in front of me; I think about these recrudesced memories; I contemplate this confluence of the concrete and conceptualized. It seems to me, all too often, that I have a hard time connecting those disparate existences. Despite my social anxiety, or perhaps because of it, I value the social bonds I form with others more than I could ever articulate. These memories, these thoughts, these abstractions mean so much to me, yet I never seem to be able to construct concrete expressions of them; I never seem to be able to sign my name to a jacket and give it to someone. I never seem to be able to finish writing the letters to people long gone from my concrete life.
I worry all the time that people in my life now don't know how incredibly much they mean to me. I'm not good at the customary methods of social interactions: I can't call people on the phone, I don't stop by uninvited-- even email, with its purported impersonal nature, is hard for me. I worry all the time that people in my life now will become like the people in my past. I'll never write, I'll never call, I'll never let them know how much they meant to me, how much they still mean to me. I worry that the social bonds that make up my life are fleeting too fast, and that I never get a chance to articulate my appreciation.
Yesterday, I finished the last of the letters I set out to write. It was a small stack, a bit more than a half-dozen. I wrote a few current friends, too, because it seemed important to me to not fall into the easy trap of turning around, looking back, and getting lost in the past-- the easy trap I too often fall for. I held the stack of letters in my hand for a while, held them as concrete expressions of the appreciation I so often forget to show. I held the stack of letters in my hand, and felt good about what I had done, in multiple senses of the phrase: I felt good about where I'd been, and what I'd done there; I felt good about where I am, and how I got here; I felt good about writing people from so long ago, and writing people I still know; I felt good about affixing the stamps, and sending the letters on their way, despite the conflicted feelings of anxiety and appreciation and uncertainty I felt as well. Mostly, though, I felt good about myself, and hope that maybe, just maybe, the people I wrote to will feel good, too.
Only children, madmen, and savages truly understand the "in-between" world of spiritual truth.
-Paul Klee
To one who has faith, no explanation is necessary. To one without faith, no explanation is possible.
- Thomas Aquinas
Before this year, I'd never bought a piece of large furniture in my life. Some people might argue my apartment was filled with leftovers and throw-aways and unwanted dregs. I would not be one of those people; I thought I had an apartment full of character.
My kitchen table had a broken leg that responded to my mood. On my bad days, the ones where I would sit on the floor, looking around for a reason to breath, the leg would fall off, and the table would collapse. I'd swear, and scream, and put it back together. Sometimes, you just have to pick up the pieces.
My bed was old and oversized. A queen, I think. I'd always wanted a big bed, but I had a small apartment, the first one I lived in, and the bed took up 85% of the room. (My bookshelf swallowed another 10%, and my lack of caring caused the remaining 5% to be covered in clothes.) I'd lay on my bed on Sunday mornings-- the one day when I got to sleep in, the one day I worked less than 10 hours-- and stare out the skylight. The sun would eventually reach the midpoint in the sky, shine down on me, and make me uncomfortably hot. Sometimes, you just have to roll over.
My sofa was old, too, but otherwise functional. I laid on it, I slept on it, I sat on it, I stood on it. What more could I ask of it? The arms of the sofa were too big, though. They were monster arms, rising too high, sloping out too far, always getting in the way. I moved the sofa here, I moved the sofa there, but the arms were always annoying. Eventually, I stopped trying to fit it to my wants and needs. Sometimes, you just have to give up.
My coffee table was wooden and stained. It was the good sort of stain, though-- the sort of stain that protects and beautifies and shines. Of all my pieces of furniture, this was my favorite. Of all my pieces of furniture, this was the last piece I acquired. I kept a great many things on my coffee table: magazines, drugstore receipts, dirty plates and cups, paper journals, bouquets of flowers, bottles of fruit juice and memories and alcohol. Over the years, I rested my feet on that table, I rested my head on that table, I rested my life on that table. It was perfect. Sometimes, you just have to keep waiting until something perfect comes your way.
I have no old, free, leftover furniture here in Vermont. I have a futon that's functional. I have a bookcase that's bare. I have a table that's typical. I feel at home, here, but not in a home. The small degrees of separation seem important once in a while, seem like they matter-- should matter-- to me. I wonder why, though. Why should I miss my misery, my unhappiness, my incompleteness, my old, dainty furniture? I don't know. But, sometimes, I miss my life[ ]less ordinary.
I think for a while longer, though, and I'm uncertain again. At home, but not a home? I don't have the things, the objects, the pieces of furniture. But did I find something else, instead? Can't what makes me feel at home also make me feel like I have a home?
This term, this past month, this week-- I don't know when, exactly, but sometime, somehow, somewhere along the way, all the pieces came together, in a subtle and indescribable way, and my life feels complete in a complex fashion. I'm happy with where I am, what I've done, and where I'm going. The future offers more promise than the past; somehow I've turned around; I can see, I can consider, and I can live.
There are problems in my life, still, to be sure. There are pieces I'm trying to pick up off the ground and reassemble into something that broke. There are mornings when I roll over and refuse to meet the day head-on. There are looks I see in the mirror, when I'm all alone at night, and tired-- looks that say, "I want to let go," "I want to give up."
But outside of those moments, and within them, a confluence of conditions have created, or perhaps reawakened, something here, something inside of me-- something I've been wanting for a long time, something perfect I've been waiting for: faith.
I've been holding the book for the last twenty minutes, but I can't remember anything I've read. I close it and look at the cover. Law In An Emerging Global Village: A Post-Westphalian Perspective. I open it again. "In a somewhat unusual move, but one that deserves special notice..."
I look up at the clock on my phone. 9:06. It's been such a long day. They've all been long days recently. I pick up the phone. 0-send. "Hi, this is-- Please enter your pass-- You have no new messages. If you would like--"
In "This is What the Living Do," Marie Howe talks about the everyday things we do, the details of life that seem insignificant and troublesome and pathetic:
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty
dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the
everyday we spoke of.
...
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through
the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and
I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street,
the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to
pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss – we want more and more and
then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the
window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing
so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m
speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
The dead give up something when they move along home, and we like to think that it's those mundane details that seem to squeeze the very life out us-- the clogged drains, the horrid roommates, the icy driveways we keep getting our cars stuck in-- those things that the living do. And it is. The dead give up those details-- but also something else. We do these things-- we keep doing them-- because of this yearning we have, this force that compels us through these mundane details in search of something better, something more.
It's cold in here. I walk over to the heater. 61 degrees. I leave it off. My laptop is sitting on the table. My new table. There's a card in the corner. "Use that furniture!" I am. Alt-tab. No new messages.
I'm hungry. I walk out into the kitchen, where it's even colder. A pan is soaking in the sink, a crust of marinara still visible along the rim. Crumbs are left on the cutting board-- schiacciata, probably. I forgot to wipe my knife off, too. I'm not hungry. It's too cold. I open the refrigerator. Broccoli. Eggplant. Tofu. Pasta. Pickles. That's funny; I sent someone pickles once. That's not really funny.
I go back in my room, and sit down on the futon. I pick up the phone. And how should I presume? And where do I begin? I try to find my voice. I try to find me. I put the phone back on the charger.
It's that yearning, those mundane details, that reminds us we are living, and, because of that, we can remember the things that are gone. It's bittersweet, always, because we desperately want the Drano to unplug the sink, and we desperately want that letter to come, and we desperately want those who are gone to be with us again.
I'm tired. It seems like the day just began. Hasn't it just begun? I didn't get a chance to take my shoes off. Or wash my hands in the sink with that strawberry soap. Or bring home the red and violet tulips and put them in the little yellow vase with a bit of water so they would stay fresh for days. In the end, we just run out of time.
I check the time. 9:37. I should call. Maybe she wants to know that I care when she's sick. Maybe she wants to know that I care. Maybe she doesn't care. Maybe she's already asleep. I hesitate. I think. I look at the clock. 10:04. I pause.
10:30. The heater's been on for a while now. I take off my hat. I look over at the cards on the bedside stand. "It's maybe the most amazing thing that's ever happened to me!" Really? Maybe? Maybe not? Why don't you call? Why don't you write? "Read between the lines." Translation: I used to love you.
Mary Oliver, in "The Ponds," writes about dichotomy of beauty in the world:
Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe
their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them-
the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch
only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?
I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided-
and that one wears an orange blight-
and this one is a glossy cheek
half nibbled away-
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled-
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking
into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing-
that the light is everything-that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.
Sometimes we stop, and see how much simple beauty there is in the world. The perfectly clear sky, the gentle breezes that mark the beginning of spring, the patches of daffodils that line Highway 34 in Tangent. And when we get closer, we find things aren't so perfect after all. We see the blights, and the nibbling, and the imperfections, and, suddenly, somehow, the beauty evaporates. How can something be beautiful with this? Why would something be perfect with that? The images we have in our minds turn out to be far different from these stark realities. We feel disappointed. We feel let down. And we lose sight of the obvious fact that life is always greater than the sum of its parts.
I walk over to the table. No new messages. Tab to Local Folders. Scroll down. Open. Reread. No "Thanks for coming." No "I miss you." No "Gimme Ma Space." Instead: "A real email is forthcoming, I swear." Forthcoming. Indeed. Like so many things. And what would happen if we waited around? Waited around for just those things? Two new messages. Spam. Junk. I hate you. Do I? Scroll up. Scroll up. Open. Reread. Reminder: "How could you NOT think I was completely in love with you?" Pause. How indeed. Page down. Repeat times eight. Statement: "You're definitely insightful." Question: Are you still insightful? Can you see how much I need to know what happened? What is happening? What is going to happen?
I thought we had something. But it's cold, now, and I don't know anymore. I'm hungry. I walk out into the kitchen. I should eat something. I'm not hungry. I open the refrigerator door. More reminders. I'm bored. I walk into the bathroom, and brush my teeth.
Minty freshness. I'm tired. I wish you were here. I wish I were there. Why am I doing this again? Enough already. But not enough. Dreams last for so long, and I can't seem to stop dreaming. The future, the multitude of our futures. The outlines of our lives. I fall asleep. Because in the end, I'm happy to just think. And wait. And see what happens.
Yearning, to paraphrase Richard Wilbur, calls us to the things of this world. It reminds us that being alive allows us not only the trials and tribulations that tax our very soul, but also the possibility for so much delight. Tragedy teaches us that pain and happiness, sorrow and elation are inextricably linked; the choices we make don't lead to one polarization or the other, but rather to a combination of both. The beauty of the world is not reducible to individual blossoms, or to a set of blissful-- very blissful-- circumstances that might now be gone. Rather, it's the whole that matters.
Life is always greater than the sum of its parts.
The dangerous smell of Drano. The flaws of a blossom. The squeeky sound of the laundry line being drawn in at 7:30 in the morning. The letter that still sits on my bedside table. These are the parts.
I am living, I remember you. This is the whole.
And this is what the living do.
I've read that etymologists are undecided about the meaning of the word "Selah;" it appears in several places throughout the Bible, most notably in the Book of Psalms. When I was growing up, though, it was used to bring silence, and meant 'pause, and consider what was said.'
What have I said here? Why do I write here? What have I become here?
Stop. Pause. Consider.
Selah.
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
-T.S. Eliot
For six months, I've been hopelessly attempting to clarify the ineffable, explore the indescribable, and raid the inarticulate. For six months, I've been writing here. It's strange to look back on what I've thought about, what I've written about, what I've created here.
I've never been happy with my writing. The only B I got in middle school was in Humanities. I passed Freshman English in high school on a technicality (not as good a story as you might imagine), and didn't complete (or even attempt) another writing class until I took the requisites for my CA degree. I avoided writing as one might avoid the plague. The irony of me choosing Marlboro over other, less writing-intensive schools has never been lost on me.
At times, the raid on the inarticulate has seemed like a futile and wasted effort. At times, I've been terrified of showing what I am, and who I am. At times, I've thought about going no further. At times, I've even thought about stopping altogether. It's scary, when you're as guarded and shy and reserved as I am, to even look for the words to write about these things, let alone actually share them with others, anonymous as these "others"-- as you "others"-- are. Or were.
It's strange to think that anyone and everyone can know so much about me. It's comforting, too, when I realize that most people just gloss over these words, picking out the overt meanings and moving on. It's nice, really it is, to know most people don't study my words, highlight my allusions, examine my line breaks. It's nice to know most people think I'm writing about astronomy, the El, my voicemail, and FireFox. It's nice that most people don't wonder why I allude to Eliot's measured spoonfuls, or to Hemingway's dialogue between Jake and Brett, or to Schroedinger's Cat. It's nice to still have secrets.
Hidden as they are, though, the truths in this flog are still me. Me. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I never planned it this way. Do we ever? Do we ever measure out the spoonfuls of our lives? Do we ever stand at the juncture, thinking about the benefits of the path less traveled?
I wouldn't have chosen this path. I had started down the other one, indeed. Things change, sometimes. A random event, an offhand comment, a single line in an email that has no earthly explanation for existing. "Whenever you write like that... I always think it's very good."
And so I wrote more like that.
Things change. We change. People change us.
You find things you didn't know you had; you find things you didn't think you could have; you find things you didn't know existed.
The space in-between, the border between past and present tense, is always hard to live in. It's troublesome and worrisome and the only certainty is that there isn't any certainty. I want to say that nothing is the same anymore, but, of course, many things are still the same. I pick out those few things that are different, those few little things, and hold them up to the light, glorifying them, totalizing them, believing they have somehow come to mean everything.
They aren't. And many things are still the same.
I'm impatient, and insecure, and think too much, and sometimes it seems like I'm running out of time. Quick, decide: What will you have for breakfast tomorrow? What will the title of your Plan be? Which Graduate program will you choose? Which park will you watch the quacking ducks eat the scraps of bread from the sandwich your grandkid couldn't finish?
Stop. Pause. Consider.
Selah.
It's easy to lose sight of the small moments-- the true moments of beauty that give you something to compare the big moments with. Earlier tonight, I went outside and watched the stars for a while. It was clear, and crisp, but not uncomfortably cold. The stars sparkle and shine and sit there timelessly in the fabric of the sky. And I point and say, "Look! Orion!" And I say, "Look! The big dipper!" And I say, "Look! Cassiopeia!" And, of course, I have no idea what I'm looking at, or who I'm talking to. It doesn't matter. It looks wonderful, and the world is wonderful, and I feel wonderful.
Stop. Pause. Consider.
Selah.
What is this, here? What have I said? Why do I say it?
This is me. The words, the thoughts, the feelings-- all of this is me. These are the measured spoonfuls of my life, laid out for contemplation. These are the stepping stones I've used along the way. These are the mileage markers that show how far I've come.
This is me. I write because these words sound nice to me. I write because sometimes it's the only thing that makes sense to me. I write because once, a while ago, someone said they liked what I wrote.
This is me. And it's because of you.
Selah.
It's quiet here. I've been getting up early. It's warm outside. I've been feeling something ineffable. In both senses of the word.
Some people drink. Or eat ice cream. Or sit at home all day. Or go shopping.
I'm drinking coffee. I'm eating Tofutti. I took a shower, and put my pajamas back on. I've been shopping.
Shopping? Me? How unusual?
Yes. A little bit. But I don't buy clothes, because I have no fashion sense. I don't buy consumables, because they rarely interest me. I don't buy nifty gadgets, because I feel guilty for so many reasons. I buy poetry.
Hi. I'm Sean. I'm very unusual. And my large collection of poetry is now explained.
I have begun,
when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering question
to ask my dead friends for their opinion
and the answer is often immediate and clear.
Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child
in my middle age?
They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling-whatever leads
to joy, they always answer,
to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy's ashes were-
it's green in there, a green vase,
and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes.
Billy's already gone through the frightening door,
whatever he says I'll do.
-Marie Howe
Recently, I've become enamored with Marie Howe, whose collection, What the Living Do, is an autobiographical anthology of poetry about her abusive childhood, the death of her brother, and others, from AIDS, and her struggle to find meaning in such a tragic world.
The world is Tragic. It's not good; it's not bad; it's Tragic. And sometimes it seems full of difficult phone calls, and you desperately want someone who's seen it all to tell you what to do.
For my Plan, I've been reading about the connection between political theory and Greek Tragedy. It's interesting, and thought provoking, and, most of all, hopeful stuff. I've been talking with Meg, too, about the role of tragedy in the world, and how, with the rejection of the certainty that exists in moral choices, it brings uncertainty, but also hope, to the our lives.
The Sun Also Rises. And sometimes it's pretty to think about what might be, or what might have been.
If you'd only let me in.
So you don't get to be a saint
Martyrs never last this long
-The Weakerthans
I ordered Patrick Friesen's You Don't Get to Be a Saint, too. [Finally.] Mmm. I know this one will make me happy and warm and wishing, ever so faintly, that I could still be a saint. I desperately wanted to get The Shunning, also, but, at $8, it would have been the most expensive of the books I got. Then I saw it used at Amazon's Marketplace, and I got excited and ready to buy it. But I didn't. Because I'd already picked quite a few books out. And I sort of want to actually read them.
Yes, so other books are coming, as well. But I don't want to talk about them all now.
Amazon's Marketplace is one of the coolest things. That I can buy used books, dirt cheap (because people have no idea the PURE GOLD they're selling), without having to leave the comfort of my home is SIMPLY AMAZING. (And one of the books is coming from a bookstore in Vermont, which means it will be here soon, soon, soon, and I'll be excited and joyous and other related adjectives.) Also amazing is my ability to find th
