It was my intent, after finishing Ulysses (and then Brave New World, which I'll write about later), to pick up Dave Eggers' What is the What, which I'd started reading in January while Grandma was dying. I couldn't get into it then, but thought that was just a result of reading it in hospice. Well, I opened it on Tuesday, and have advanced from page 86, where I'd left off, to page 122. Not bad, though since Tuesday I've also started and finished Kurt Vonnegut's 1965 novel God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, and John Steinbeck's 1942 novel The Moon is Down, a total of 467 pages.
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater was good, but not remarkable. A funny book, Vonnegut states the moral as often as he lights up his Pall Malls. While enjoyable, there is no surprise, and the ending feels abrupt. Nonetheless, I wish I could write like Vonnegut.
What I really want to talk about is John Steinbeck. Not only The Moon is Down, but the man in general. I guess it's fitting that I mentioned Vonnegut, because, while Vonnegut is the most famous humanist in contemporary literature, Steinbeck was no slouch when it came to believing in mankind. But where Vonnegut's humanism is slightly sarcastic and blatantly realistic (mankind's repeated failures don't surprise him), Steinbeck maintained an incredibly passionate, idealistic sense of what it meant to be human. Both believed that mankind was deeply flawed, but while I get the feeling that Vonnegut was resigned to these flaws, Steinbeck thought that man had the ability to save himself. He was a strong proponent of independent thought, of the arts, of writing, and of his writing. To say that he believed in his writing is not to say he was an egoist. I think Mr. Steinbeck says it best:
"The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true."
My ex-girlfriend believes I'm an incredibly arrogant asshole. One of the reasons is because I really want to write something that significantly impacts people. She probably thinks I want this because impact means fame, which means lots of people will claim to like me and lots of women will sleep with me because I'll be rich. No. I just want to be able to affect people the way I have been affected by literature. I think this is exactly the motive that Steinbeck had as well.
A collection of his journalism and selected non-fiction, America and Americans, is divided into sections based upon subject matter. In the intro to the miscellaneous section, the editors remark that Steinbeck "loved to address his prose to a particular audience...." Much of his Vietnam journalism comes in the form of letters to a woman named Alicia. Who she is, I don't know. An actual person, or simply a name to put on a paper, it doesn't matter. So many writers, usually pricks, say that they write only for themselves, and that writing for anyone else isn't as noble or pure; it is artistic compromise. But those are the kinds of writers who roll their own cigarettes for style, wear sunglasses in the dark, drink red wine and praise Nietzsche without having read him. I don't see how anyone can consider himself a writer, or at least how a writer can desire to be published, if he doesn't believe he has something to share with others.
I read The Moon is Down in two hours, no kidding. Only 188 pages, but I was still proud of myself. The book is about hope, perseverance, never giving up, even in the face of great odds. Sounds cliché, but Steinbeck succeeds with this theme where a weaker writer might fail. Read this book and tell me if you ever see the author in it. Steinbeck's style is there, but in no way would you imagine him sitting down telling this story, whereas, with Vonnegut for example, it is easy to see that Vonnegut is pleading through his characters. The Moon is Down is like a Gus Van Sant movie; detached from the text, the camera simply floats, and does not judge. This detachment allows the characters to be completely independent, actual beings in an actual world, and not the product of someone's thoughts. You might call this believability the 'ficitonal dream.' Never once does Steinbeck break from it.
The point of view is third-person omniscient. Though it stays fairly objective throughout, occasionally the narrative dips into internal monologue, and it does this for multiple characters. It would be safer to call it third-person objective with forays into omniscience. This narration allows for every character to be a human being. The reader can sympathize just as much with the invading army as with the conquered villagers. Mayor Orden and Colonel Lanser, though enemies by circumstance, are emotional equals. Even Captain Loft, the easiest to hate, is a human with needs and desires and vulnerabilities.
This novel is also a wonderful example of an essential setting. Thematically, it could take place anywhere, because mankind shares a certain kind of spirit. Nonetheless, Steinbeck pays careful attention to the layout of the town. The winter backdrop is fitting to the cold emotions between the army and the citizens. And what better setting for the low point of man, war, than the low point of the year, when all is dark, cold, wet, drab? And what better metaphor for the eternal shine of human hope than snow, which falls pure, and glints just as well at the height of day as it does in moonlight?
The more I want to say abou this novel, the less I can think to write. Read it. It is not a demanding book. Never does Steinbeck ask you for your understanding or your interest. He simply presents a story to you. But the story is like a lone bird flying into a storm; you can't help but to care for it, and be moved.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Dispatches From Iraq
McSweeney's Internet Tendency is an all-around great website, but these are a few of my favorite things. Check out Dispatches from Iraq first, as Roland Thompson just posted another one today.
Dispatches From Iraq
Dispatches From Adjunct Faculty at a Large State University
Philip Graham Spends a Year in Lisbon
Dispatches From Iraq
Dispatches From Adjunct Faculty at a Large State University
Philip Graham Spends a Year in Lisbon
Monday, May 28, 2007
Ulysses
I've finished Ulysses. Conquered the beast in less than a year, which I consider pretty good, since nine months of school interrupted the initial reading with the final sprint to the end.
I'd like to tell you that things are clearer for me now, that I understand the world on a different level, that there are things I know now, things you need to know. But I'm as confused as when I started.
While doing some very minor research, I found a short summary of each of the chapters on Wikipedia. And truly, in eighteen short paragraphs they were able to tell me just what the fuck I'd been reading about for 783 pages. The only thing I really take from reading Ulysses is that James Joyce was a genius.
For example, episode 14 takes place in a maternity hospital where the character Mina Purefoy is giving birth. So here's what Joyce did:
"Joyce organized this chapter as three sections divided into nine total subsections, representing the trimesters and months of gestation.
But why is that significant, the language? Novels are supposed to have plot, a beginning, middle, and end that makes sense, that leaves us with a feeling of some kind of change, whether physically or emotionally. Right?
Remember, while Ulysses is considered to be one of the greatest novels of all time, it is also considered "one of the most important works of Modernist literature" (Wikipedia, emphasis added). One of the major tenets of Modernism was that language is an insufficient form of communication. Language would never get us closer to a higher truth; in fact, it might even take us further away from it.
Ulysses can be seen as the prose equivalent of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, an incredibly beautiful, and almost as incomprehensible poem. When I studied The Waste Land in American Literature, I learned that Eliot wrote the poem almost as a challenge to people who felt that language could communicate truth. Every section is Eliot saying, "This is how I feel. Can you understand that? Of course not. But I'll try again." It is the use of precise imagery and figurative language to show that, while those things might produce a relatively specific image, they give you no insight into the nature of truth, whether that truth be universal, or personal. We can never understand another's emotions, no matter how similar our life experiences are; neither can we understand the universe, if there is anything to understand.
What Joyce does is slightly different. While arguably as well-educated as Eliot, Joyce wasn't quite the snob that Eliot was. When he looked at the insufficiency of language, he didn't despair, he laughed. And why shouldn't he? Just think of how many languages exist in this world. None are any closer to the truth than others, and for something that is supposed to bring people together, language, on a global scale, actually serves to separate people of different cultures. It's absurd. And since there's nothing we can do about it, we might as well laugh about it.
In his essay "Politics and the English Language," (1946) George Orwell talks about how convoluted language has become:
"Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, 'I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so.' Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:
After reading the summary on Wikipedia, I said, "Joyce was a genius." Laura was with me, and asked, "But is it really genius if nobody can understand it?" I'd say that's a pretty good question, but the answer is simple: of course.
Vincent Van Gogh is considered by pretty much everyone to be an artistic genius. Yet in his lifetime he never sold a single painting. Nobody understood him either, but Laura had to admit that yes, he was a genius. Stephen Hawking is a brilliant man, yet I don't know enough math or theory to understand anything that he's talking about. The difference with Van Gogh and Stephen Hawking, though, is that most people know what they were/are trying to do with their art (yes, theoretical astrophysics - and all mathematics - is an art). With Joyce, or with language in general, people don't consider the art behind it. Not everybody can paint, nor can everybody understand the kind of math Hawking does, but everybody understands some kind of language. Because of this, language is dismissed as an art form.
That's why the only people who love Ulysses are scholars and critics and writers like me. That's why the bestseller lists are filled with books by James Patterson and Dean Koontz and David Baldacci. Books driven by plot. This happens, then this happens, then this happens, the end. Events. Occurrences. Those are what matter to people, while language takes a backseat.
Yet for me and my fellow writing students, Language is part of the triumvirate of a good story, the other two branches being Plot and Theme. And just like a three-legged stool, a good story cannot stand without all three legs. But, apparently, a story does not have to stand in order to sell.
Ulysses has all three legs. There is a plot, no matter how complicated it seems, and there is a theme, no matter how dubious or ambivalent it may be. But the real thrill of Ulysses, the reason it is still in print, is still the unbending idol of incredible literature, is because it takes language on its own unbelievable odyssey. That's a trip everybody should be willing to take at least once in their lives. Like I said before, everybody speaks a language. Therefore, in some way, we are all artists. While we may not be able to paint a still-life, or solve complex equations, we can all take ideas floating around inside our head and condense them into words. Every single day, with every word we speak, we are creating an image. Every time I say "tree,' I'm drawing you a picture. But common language, i.e. communication, is nothing more than drawing upon the pool of images that have a universal resonance. But the words "tree," or "cup," or "panther," are just monotonous whispers compared to the shouts that good language is able to accomplish. And Ulysses is the longest, loudest scream I've ever heard. It's difficult, almost painful, but god is it refreshing; like jumping in a lake in winter, it turns your insides to glass, stops your heart, and lets you know the pleasing shock of something you've never felt before.
I'd like to tell you that things are clearer for me now, that I understand the world on a different level, that there are things I know now, things you need to know. But I'm as confused as when I started.
While doing some very minor research, I found a short summary of each of the chapters on Wikipedia. And truly, in eighteen short paragraphs they were able to tell me just what the fuck I'd been reading about for 783 pages. The only thing I really take from reading Ulysses is that James Joyce was a genius.
For example, episode 14 takes place in a maternity hospital where the character Mina Purefoy is giving birth. So here's what Joyce did:
"Joyce organized this chapter as three sections divided into nine total subsections, representing the trimesters and months of gestation.
This extremely complex chapter can be further broken down structurally. It consists of sixty paragraphs. The first ten paragraphs are parodies of Latin and Anglo-Saxon language, the two major predecessors to the English language, and can be seen as intercourse and conception. The next forty paragraphs, representing the 40 weeks of gestation in human embryonic development, begin with Middle English satires, the earliest form of English; they move chronologically forward through the various styles mentioned above. At the end of the fiftieth paragraph, the baby in the maternity hospital is born, and the final ten paragraphs are the child, combining all the different forms of slang and street English that were spoken in Dublin in the early part of the 20th century" (Wikipedia).
But why is that significant, the language? Novels are supposed to have plot, a beginning, middle, and end that makes sense, that leaves us with a feeling of some kind of change, whether physically or emotionally. Right?
Remember, while Ulysses is considered to be one of the greatest novels of all time, it is also considered "one of the most important works of Modernist literature" (Wikipedia, emphasis added). One of the major tenets of Modernism was that language is an insufficient form of communication. Language would never get us closer to a higher truth; in fact, it might even take us further away from it.
Ulysses can be seen as the prose equivalent of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, an incredibly beautiful, and almost as incomprehensible poem. When I studied The Waste Land in American Literature, I learned that Eliot wrote the poem almost as a challenge to people who felt that language could communicate truth. Every section is Eliot saying, "This is how I feel. Can you understand that? Of course not. But I'll try again." It is the use of precise imagery and figurative language to show that, while those things might produce a relatively specific image, they give you no insight into the nature of truth, whether that truth be universal, or personal. We can never understand another's emotions, no matter how similar our life experiences are; neither can we understand the universe, if there is anything to understand.
What Joyce does is slightly different. While arguably as well-educated as Eliot, Joyce wasn't quite the snob that Eliot was. When he looked at the insufficiency of language, he didn't despair, he laughed. And why shouldn't he? Just think of how many languages exist in this world. None are any closer to the truth than others, and for something that is supposed to bring people together, language, on a global scale, actually serves to separate people of different cultures. It's absurd. And since there's nothing we can do about it, we might as well laugh about it.
In his essay "Politics and the English Language," (1946) George Orwell talks about how convoluted language has become:
"Consider for instance some comfortable English professor defending Russian totalitarianism. He cannot say outright, 'I believe in killing off your opponents when you can get good results by doing so.' Probably, therefore, he will say something like this:
While freely conceding that the Soviet regime exhibits certain features which the humanitarian may be inclined to deplore, we must, I think, agree that a certain curtailment of the right to political opposition is an unavoidable concomitant of transitional periods, and that the rigours which the Russian people have been called upon to undergo have been amply justified in the sphere of concrete achievement."
Joyce does this same kind of thing in Ulysses. Here's how he describes Leopold Bloom undressing:
"He removed his collar, with contained black necktie and collapsible stud, from his neck to a position on the left of the table. He unbuttoned successively in reversed direction waistcoat, trousers, shirt and vest along the medial line of irregular incrispated black hair extending in triangular convergence from the pelvic basin over the circumference of the abdomen and umbilicular fossicle along the medial line of nodes to the intersection of the sixth pectoral vertebrae, thence produced both ways at right angles and terminating in circles described about two equidistant points, right and left, on the summits of the mammary prominences. He unbraced successively each of six minus one braced trouser buttons, arranged in pairs, of which one incomplete."
Language is supposed to be specific, and this passage is very specific. Yet specificity is supposed to bring clear meaning to an idea, and this passage is rendered nearly incomprehensible by its specificity. As an English major, and simply as someone who enjoys the complexities of language, I can appreciate the irony. For Joyce, who knew so much about so many languages, it's easy to see why he had so much fun lampooning this kind of specificity and complexity.After reading the summary on Wikipedia, I said, "Joyce was a genius." Laura was with me, and asked, "But is it really genius if nobody can understand it?" I'd say that's a pretty good question, but the answer is simple: of course.
Vincent Van Gogh is considered by pretty much everyone to be an artistic genius. Yet in his lifetime he never sold a single painting. Nobody understood him either, but Laura had to admit that yes, he was a genius. Stephen Hawking is a brilliant man, yet I don't know enough math or theory to understand anything that he's talking about. The difference with Van Gogh and Stephen Hawking, though, is that most people know what they were/are trying to do with their art (yes, theoretical astrophysics - and all mathematics - is an art). With Joyce, or with language in general, people don't consider the art behind it. Not everybody can paint, nor can everybody understand the kind of math Hawking does, but everybody understands some kind of language. Because of this, language is dismissed as an art form.
That's why the only people who love Ulysses are scholars and critics and writers like me. That's why the bestseller lists are filled with books by James Patterson and Dean Koontz and David Baldacci. Books driven by plot. This happens, then this happens, then this happens, the end. Events. Occurrences. Those are what matter to people, while language takes a backseat.
Yet for me and my fellow writing students, Language is part of the triumvirate of a good story, the other two branches being Plot and Theme. And just like a three-legged stool, a good story cannot stand without all three legs. But, apparently, a story does not have to stand in order to sell.
Ulysses has all three legs. There is a plot, no matter how complicated it seems, and there is a theme, no matter how dubious or ambivalent it may be. But the real thrill of Ulysses, the reason it is still in print, is still the unbending idol of incredible literature, is because it takes language on its own unbelievable odyssey. That's a trip everybody should be willing to take at least once in their lives. Like I said before, everybody speaks a language. Therefore, in some way, we are all artists. While we may not be able to paint a still-life, or solve complex equations, we can all take ideas floating around inside our head and condense them into words. Every single day, with every word we speak, we are creating an image. Every time I say "tree,' I'm drawing you a picture. But common language, i.e. communication, is nothing more than drawing upon the pool of images that have a universal resonance. But the words "tree," or "cup," or "panther," are just monotonous whispers compared to the shouts that good language is able to accomplish. And Ulysses is the longest, loudest scream I've ever heard. It's difficult, almost painful, but god is it refreshing; like jumping in a lake in winter, it turns your insides to glass, stops your heart, and lets you know the pleasing shock of something you've never felt before.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Waiting
It is hot now in Indiana. Beginning around ten in the morning and not breaking until well after midnight, the heat sits upon everything as the sweat sits upon the foreheads and upper lips of the people I see. The window-unit AC stays off, and I suffer the nights beneath one thin sheet, the window open, a fan humming at its slowest speed. Getting ready for Africa, I tell myself; I lose the last of my clothing and kick off the sheet.
There is too much time to wait. Insurance company mistakes have once again postponed my required dental work, which means that my invitation (and therefore definitive statement of departure) for Africa remains in limbo. A job interview yesterday yielded only the possibility of a drug test, which they'll let me know about in a week. And I've been summoned for jury duty, but that, too, will have to wait.
Right now I'm killing time waiting for a friend to arrive to spend the weekend here. I've spent all day waiting, walking twice to the post office to send out: check for utilities, check for rent, juror questionnaire and reasons why I can't serve during the term specified by the US District Court. I've gone to the library, two computer labs, and walked past the same newspaper racks, restaurants, and bookstores at least three times. My armpits have been damp since I stepped out the door.
Times like these not even music will cheer me up.
In Ulysses, which I am so close to finishing it's almost frustrating, Leopold Bloom, or the narrator, or whoever it is, mentions that, in a life aged 70 years, 20 are spent in sleep. That's 2/7 of an individual's life spent sleeping. The longer you live, the greater the fraction becomes. I've even heard that 1/3 of our lives is spent in a somnolent state. These figures don't bother me so much, because I like sleep, and, while glancing through a random book at the little cornershop on Kirkland today, I learned that sleep is more important than food when it comes to a person's health.
What bothers me is the waiting. How much life do we spend doing that?
Here's what I did yesterday:
1000: woke up, performed waking duties, i.e., urination, cleansification, food-preparation, mastication
1045 - 1300: waited to go to dentist; filled time with: dog-playing, book-reading, tan-getting, mail-retreiving, newspaper-perusing
1300 - 1330: drove to dentist's office
1330 - 1340: waited for dentist to announce name, upon which speaking of said surname, was informed that insurance company, i.e. Aetna, had chosen to drop us at some point in the two-and-a-half (2.5) weeks since I'd been there last
1340 - 1342: punch car in frustration
1342-1346: drive to local location of secondary education
1346-1350: wander through halls in search of paterfamilias
1350 - 1403: explain to padre the gist of what hath gone down
1403 - 1427: immemorable
1427 - 1600: drove to Bloomington
1600 - 1800: waited for job interview
1800 - 1822: drove to job interview
1822 - 1846: filled out another application, pre-employment survey, laughed
1846 - 1900: person-to-person interview
1900: told to wait another week
1901 - 300: waited for sleep
What was accomplished? Some money was spent, some gas was wasted. All debits, no credits. And still, I wait.
And once I do get a job, once I get my teeth fixed, once I graduate, once I go to Africa, won't I still be waiting? For lunch, for dinner, for another drink, for something exciting, for a night with a woman, for what's next? And when I get to what's next, then what?
My grandma lost two husbands in her lifetime. Grandpa Buck in 1984, Jerry in either 2003 or 2004, I can't remember. She wasn't left with nothing, but she'd lost so much. All that came next was more cancer, the usual Christmas celebrations, a surgery or two, chemo, again and again. I would visit her as often as I could, because she was my grandma, and I loved her more than I've ever loved another human being. We would sit, first in the house I'd always known, her house, Grandma's house, and then in the condo her children picked out for her when it was decided that Montpelier was too far from Toledo, that the five acres and the basement stairs were too much for an 81-year old woman. We would play cribbage on the back-porch of her house while corn sizzled in butter and aluminum foil, or in the sunroom of the condo, watching her neighbors move in and out of their garages, or trying to spot hummingbirds, the occasional American goldfinch. It was our way of waiting. For dinner, for dark, when we'd put on the Dean Martin tapes, or for bed, when she'd kiss me goodnight, and I'd watch her walk to her room, floating inside a nightgown, her bones and skin no more than a collection of marrow and dust. She was so tiny, so old and weak, so much in pain, so tired. I would lie awake at night wondering if she was waiting to die.
And then we were told, for the fourth time, that Grandma had cancer. Was it before she went to Florida? It must have been. But while there, visiting Aunt Teeny, Grandma was taken to the hospital. Fluid in her lungs. Totally incoherent. Falling fast. Uncle Pete and Aunt Denise flew down to Florida, spoke with the doctors, and decided to hire an Air Ambulance, a small private jet to fly Grandma back to Toledo.
An Air Ambulance is not cheap. Luckily, the doctor at St. Luke's agreed to accept the transfer, and arrangements were made. The nurses and doctors in Florida were being difficult, saying little to my aunt and uncle, shooting patronizing looks of pity towards them, repeating, over and over, that what they were doing was very expensive. Aunt Denise, nearly in tears, couldn't take it.
"Will you stop looking at my brother and me like we're idiots? We know it's expensive. We know she's dying. We just want her to die at home."
At St. Luke's, she was in pain, and when I visited she slept while I watched television with no sound. She would do her breathing exercises, or try her best to answer the questions the nurses and doctors asked, or bug anyone she could for another pain pill. Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete worked rotating shifts, feeding Grandma as much as they could, asking doctors questions, writing down the answers. The weekend I was there I went in for breakfast, so they could rest a shift, get some sleep.
When it was decided there was nothing they could do, Grandma went to hospice.
In the hospital we were supposed to get her to eat as much as possible. The goal was to make Grandma better. But in hospice, things are different, as we learned when given the standard informational packet, which included the pamphlet The Dying Process. Nobody would force her to do anything. The weekend I was there I watched the nurses give her as many pain pills as she wanted (provided she wouldn't OD), and take away her untouched food trays with no admonishment. Why yell at her? She was there to die.
Aunt Patti had done Grandma's hair, but still, it was thin, and the skin was tight to her skull. She slept most of the time, her mouth open, her hands held tight in the air in front of her chest. The breaths went in slow, held. We waited, wondering who to call first. Exhale. We sat back in our seats. She twitched occasionally. Aunt Teeny said, "I wonder what she's thinking about." I wish I knew. Growing up. Raising her siblings. The way her mother used to sing to her father, that song she'd told me so many times, the song whose name I can't remember, and now will never know. Hopefully she thought of me, of all her grandkids, of washing us in the sink in Montpelier, of rides on the four-wheeler, of Christmases in her living room, when we were young and Jerry was still alive, when nobody thought about anybody dying.
Guests would come in, all tiptoes and whispers, asking, "Is she sleeping?" It's okay, we told them, you can say hello. They would sit on the side of the bed, grab a hand or a shoulder, nudge her awake. Don't push too hard, I'd think, there's not much there. Her eyes would open, adjust, widen. "Oh my God," Grandma'd say, "I can't believe it."
And then, two weeks later, with Uncle Tim back from Australia, with Aunt Teeny flown in just that day from Florida, Grandma died. All six kids were there, holding her hands, telling her how much they loved her. She took a breath and never let it go. I like to think she held onto that breath like she held onto their hands. The last piece of them she could take with her, all their breaths swirling around inside of her; she swallowed it whole, made it a part of her, and when it was complete, she left.
The only time I cried was at the funeral. Standing in the front pew while Aunt Patti sang "Amazing Grace." I was a pallbearer. It felt good to carry her one last time. It was like dancing.
I miss her. No similes can tell how much. I'm waiting for the day when I can finally erase her number from my phone book. I'm waiting to cry again, because I know it's not over. I'm waiting to hear from her, in a breeze, in a song, in the sound of a kitchen sink, or a too-loud television, or a laugh, or the pfth of a BB gun. I'm waiting to see her again, and I know I'm going to be waiting a long time.
There is too much time to wait. Insurance company mistakes have once again postponed my required dental work, which means that my invitation (and therefore definitive statement of departure) for Africa remains in limbo. A job interview yesterday yielded only the possibility of a drug test, which they'll let me know about in a week. And I've been summoned for jury duty, but that, too, will have to wait.
Right now I'm killing time waiting for a friend to arrive to spend the weekend here. I've spent all day waiting, walking twice to the post office to send out: check for utilities, check for rent, juror questionnaire and reasons why I can't serve during the term specified by the US District Court. I've gone to the library, two computer labs, and walked past the same newspaper racks, restaurants, and bookstores at least three times. My armpits have been damp since I stepped out the door.
Times like these not even music will cheer me up.
In Ulysses, which I am so close to finishing it's almost frustrating, Leopold Bloom, or the narrator, or whoever it is, mentions that, in a life aged 70 years, 20 are spent in sleep. That's 2/7 of an individual's life spent sleeping. The longer you live, the greater the fraction becomes. I've even heard that 1/3 of our lives is spent in a somnolent state. These figures don't bother me so much, because I like sleep, and, while glancing through a random book at the little cornershop on Kirkland today, I learned that sleep is more important than food when it comes to a person's health.
What bothers me is the waiting. How much life do we spend doing that?
Here's what I did yesterday:
1000: woke up, performed waking duties, i.e., urination, cleansification, food-preparation, mastication
1045 - 1300: waited to go to dentist; filled time with: dog-playing, book-reading, tan-getting, mail-retreiving, newspaper-perusing
1300 - 1330: drove to dentist's office
1330 - 1340: waited for dentist to announce name, upon which speaking of said surname, was informed that insurance company, i.e. Aetna, had chosen to drop us at some point in the two-and-a-half (2.5) weeks since I'd been there last
1340 - 1342: punch car in frustration
1342-1346: drive to local location of secondary education
1346-1350: wander through halls in search of paterfamilias
1350 - 1403: explain to padre the gist of what hath gone down
1403 - 1427: immemorable
1427 - 1600: drove to Bloomington
1600 - 1800: waited for job interview
1800 - 1822: drove to job interview
1822 - 1846: filled out another application, pre-employment survey, laughed
1846 - 1900: person-to-person interview
1900: told to wait another week
1901 - 300: waited for sleep
What was accomplished? Some money was spent, some gas was wasted. All debits, no credits. And still, I wait.
And once I do get a job, once I get my teeth fixed, once I graduate, once I go to Africa, won't I still be waiting? For lunch, for dinner, for another drink, for something exciting, for a night with a woman, for what's next? And when I get to what's next, then what?
My grandma lost two husbands in her lifetime. Grandpa Buck in 1984, Jerry in either 2003 or 2004, I can't remember. She wasn't left with nothing, but she'd lost so much. All that came next was more cancer, the usual Christmas celebrations, a surgery or two, chemo, again and again. I would visit her as often as I could, because she was my grandma, and I loved her more than I've ever loved another human being. We would sit, first in the house I'd always known, her house, Grandma's house, and then in the condo her children picked out for her when it was decided that Montpelier was too far from Toledo, that the five acres and the basement stairs were too much for an 81-year old woman. We would play cribbage on the back-porch of her house while corn sizzled in butter and aluminum foil, or in the sunroom of the condo, watching her neighbors move in and out of their garages, or trying to spot hummingbirds, the occasional American goldfinch. It was our way of waiting. For dinner, for dark, when we'd put on the Dean Martin tapes, or for bed, when she'd kiss me goodnight, and I'd watch her walk to her room, floating inside a nightgown, her bones and skin no more than a collection of marrow and dust. She was so tiny, so old and weak, so much in pain, so tired. I would lie awake at night wondering if she was waiting to die.
And then we were told, for the fourth time, that Grandma had cancer. Was it before she went to Florida? It must have been. But while there, visiting Aunt Teeny, Grandma was taken to the hospital. Fluid in her lungs. Totally incoherent. Falling fast. Uncle Pete and Aunt Denise flew down to Florida, spoke with the doctors, and decided to hire an Air Ambulance, a small private jet to fly Grandma back to Toledo.
An Air Ambulance is not cheap. Luckily, the doctor at St. Luke's agreed to accept the transfer, and arrangements were made. The nurses and doctors in Florida were being difficult, saying little to my aunt and uncle, shooting patronizing looks of pity towards them, repeating, over and over, that what they were doing was very expensive. Aunt Denise, nearly in tears, couldn't take it.
"Will you stop looking at my brother and me like we're idiots? We know it's expensive. We know she's dying. We just want her to die at home."
At St. Luke's, she was in pain, and when I visited she slept while I watched television with no sound. She would do her breathing exercises, or try her best to answer the questions the nurses and doctors asked, or bug anyone she could for another pain pill. Aunt Denise and Uncle Pete worked rotating shifts, feeding Grandma as much as they could, asking doctors questions, writing down the answers. The weekend I was there I went in for breakfast, so they could rest a shift, get some sleep.
When it was decided there was nothing they could do, Grandma went to hospice.
In the hospital we were supposed to get her to eat as much as possible. The goal was to make Grandma better. But in hospice, things are different, as we learned when given the standard informational packet, which included the pamphlet The Dying Process. Nobody would force her to do anything. The weekend I was there I watched the nurses give her as many pain pills as she wanted (provided she wouldn't OD), and take away her untouched food trays with no admonishment. Why yell at her? She was there to die.
Aunt Patti had done Grandma's hair, but still, it was thin, and the skin was tight to her skull. She slept most of the time, her mouth open, her hands held tight in the air in front of her chest. The breaths went in slow, held. We waited, wondering who to call first. Exhale. We sat back in our seats. She twitched occasionally. Aunt Teeny said, "I wonder what she's thinking about." I wish I knew. Growing up. Raising her siblings. The way her mother used to sing to her father, that song she'd told me so many times, the song whose name I can't remember, and now will never know. Hopefully she thought of me, of all her grandkids, of washing us in the sink in Montpelier, of rides on the four-wheeler, of Christmases in her living room, when we were young and Jerry was still alive, when nobody thought about anybody dying.
Guests would come in, all tiptoes and whispers, asking, "Is she sleeping?" It's okay, we told them, you can say hello. They would sit on the side of the bed, grab a hand or a shoulder, nudge her awake. Don't push too hard, I'd think, there's not much there. Her eyes would open, adjust, widen. "Oh my God," Grandma'd say, "I can't believe it."
And then, two weeks later, with Uncle Tim back from Australia, with Aunt Teeny flown in just that day from Florida, Grandma died. All six kids were there, holding her hands, telling her how much they loved her. She took a breath and never let it go. I like to think she held onto that breath like she held onto their hands. The last piece of them she could take with her, all their breaths swirling around inside of her; she swallowed it whole, made it a part of her, and when it was complete, she left.
The only time I cried was at the funeral. Standing in the front pew while Aunt Patti sang "Amazing Grace." I was a pallbearer. It felt good to carry her one last time. It was like dancing.
I miss her. No similes can tell how much. I'm waiting for the day when I can finally erase her number from my phone book. I'm waiting to cry again, because I know it's not over. I'm waiting to hear from her, in a breeze, in a song, in the sound of a kitchen sink, or a too-loud television, or a laugh, or the pfth of a BB gun. I'm waiting to see her again, and I know I'm going to be waiting a long time.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Danny Deckchair
"Imagine you go away
On a business trip one day
And when you come back home,
Your children have grown
And you never made your wife moan"
-Regina Spektor
I like that song, because of that part, and also because of Regina's advice to people who are too caught up with worries, etc.:
"Maybe you should just kiss someone nice,
Or lick a rock,
Or both"
In the past twenty-four hours I've watched four movies:
Rushmore
Solaris
Rezervni Deli (Spare Parts)
Danny Deckchair
Of these, Rushmore and Danny Deckchair are my favorites. Both are quirky, funny, and have a love story. And both have happy endings. Everything works out for everyone, pretty much.
Normally I'm against that kind of shit, because too often a happy ending = cliché. But these pull it off. Kudos.
I think most people give a thumbs up to happiness. Isn't that what everyone spends their whole life looking for? Some method of living that leaves them lying in bed at the end of every day saying, "That was real good"?
And isn't that why we like books and music and movies and art and all these other forms of entertainment, whether mid-day snack or American Idol? They're like gift boxes, or microwave dinners; pieces of life telling us what it might mean to feel, everywhere and all the time, that everything was real good.
But who wants a Healthy Choice alfredo over some homemade spaghetti?
Here comes my happy ending. Let's hope it's not cliché.
If we're not content to settle with a frozen dinner, we shouldn't be content to settle with TV shows and movies and books. Sure, they can be a part of the whole of what makes things great, but if we don't have our own actions supporting those tidbits, we've got nothing. It's Yeats' question all over again: Life of Action or Life of Contemplation? We have to find ourselves somewhere in between.
Why do I like movies like Danny Deckchair, or music like Regina Spektor's? For one, because it feels real good. But also, because it makes me want to go out and do something on my own. Something first-hand, that I can call mine. It doesn't have to be entirely original. Ride a fucking bike if that makes you happy. All I'm saying is don't sit around all day watching the Tour de France.
Kiss someone nice. Lick a rock. Tie helium balloons to a deck chair. Start a club. Fly a kite. Fall in love.
But make sure to do it all the way.
Like Lincoln said: "Whatever you are, be a good one."
On a business trip one day
And when you come back home,
Your children have grown
And you never made your wife moan"
-Regina Spektor
I like that song, because of that part, and also because of Regina's advice to people who are too caught up with worries, etc.:
"Maybe you should just kiss someone nice,
Or lick a rock,
Or both"
In the past twenty-four hours I've watched four movies:
Rushmore
Solaris
Rezervni Deli (Spare Parts)
Danny Deckchair
Of these, Rushmore and Danny Deckchair are my favorites. Both are quirky, funny, and have a love story. And both have happy endings. Everything works out for everyone, pretty much.
Normally I'm against that kind of shit, because too often a happy ending = cliché. But these pull it off. Kudos.
I think most people give a thumbs up to happiness. Isn't that what everyone spends their whole life looking for? Some method of living that leaves them lying in bed at the end of every day saying, "That was real good"?
And isn't that why we like books and music and movies and art and all these other forms of entertainment, whether mid-day snack or American Idol? They're like gift boxes, or microwave dinners; pieces of life telling us what it might mean to feel, everywhere and all the time, that everything was real good.
But who wants a Healthy Choice alfredo over some homemade spaghetti?
Here comes my happy ending. Let's hope it's not cliché.
If we're not content to settle with a frozen dinner, we shouldn't be content to settle with TV shows and movies and books. Sure, they can be a part of the whole of what makes things great, but if we don't have our own actions supporting those tidbits, we've got nothing. It's Yeats' question all over again: Life of Action or Life of Contemplation? We have to find ourselves somewhere in between.
Why do I like movies like Danny Deckchair, or music like Regina Spektor's? For one, because it feels real good. But also, because it makes me want to go out and do something on my own. Something first-hand, that I can call mine. It doesn't have to be entirely original. Ride a fucking bike if that makes you happy. All I'm saying is don't sit around all day watching the Tour de France.
Kiss someone nice. Lick a rock. Tie helium balloons to a deck chair. Start a club. Fly a kite. Fall in love.
But make sure to do it all the way.
Like Lincoln said: "Whatever you are, be a good one."
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
A Glass Half Full
I am drunk. Standing in Ballantine Hall, at one of the Macs that, apparently, is here simply for student convenience. Listening to Badly Drawn Boy. Wishing I had more wine, or some beer, at home. Just finished Haruki Murakami's book "A Wild Sheep Chase" (which is in quotes because I can't figure out how to put shit in italics on this Mac). A good book, extremely entertaining, with enough "deep" dialogue to give a seeker of truth enough scraps to munch on for a few weeks.
It seems my whole life has been a search for God.
I've yet to find him.
What have I found? Love, good music, plenty of sex and desire, alcohol, literature. What will I do with it? Go to Africa, tell people about their farmland, educate some about the danger of HIV. Hopefully teach some creative writing, if all goes well. Am currently tutoring a South Korean student in conversational English and formal writing. I love it. He asks questions, unlike my Philosophy students (except you, Rebecca!), and he seems to genuinely want to learn everything I have to teach him. I wonder how to tell him that all I have are hopes. The study of literature is the search for truth, at least in my experience, and I haven't found it yet.
This weekend, at Adam's graduation party, I entertained three children, all under five, by sitting on a porch swing with them. There was a trash can in front of us, and one of the kids tried to kick it. I grabbed it by the handle, and said, "You should all kick it together, see how high you can get it." When they kicked, with their toes no bigger than baby shrimp, I would launch the trash can from the bottom with my own foot. It would hang in the air like a bubble, a heavy cloud. They were oblivious, thrilled at their strength. They could have kicked that can all day, and I love them for that.
It seems my whole life has been a search for God.
I've yet to find him.
What have I found? Love, good music, plenty of sex and desire, alcohol, literature. What will I do with it? Go to Africa, tell people about their farmland, educate some about the danger of HIV. Hopefully teach some creative writing, if all goes well. Am currently tutoring a South Korean student in conversational English and formal writing. I love it. He asks questions, unlike my Philosophy students (except you, Rebecca!), and he seems to genuinely want to learn everything I have to teach him. I wonder how to tell him that all I have are hopes. The study of literature is the search for truth, at least in my experience, and I haven't found it yet.
This weekend, at Adam's graduation party, I entertained three children, all under five, by sitting on a porch swing with them. There was a trash can in front of us, and one of the kids tried to kick it. I grabbed it by the handle, and said, "You should all kick it together, see how high you can get it." When they kicked, with their toes no bigger than baby shrimp, I would launch the trash can from the bottom with my own foot. It would hang in the air like a bubble, a heavy cloud. They were oblivious, thrilled at their strength. They could have kicked that can all day, and I love them for that.
Jesus, Etc.
Standing at the corner of Woodlawn and Third, I was listening to Billy Breathes, waiting for the traffic to clear. I glanced at the light to see if it was still green, saw something out of the corner of my eye, wheeled around, surprised. Just two people, waiting to cross as well. A guy, a girl. Friends, maybe more. I felt like an idiot, and was glad when they passed me crossing the street.
Outside the last building I pass before walking up the ramp into Ballantine, some construction workers were taking a cigarette break. I was thinking about my ex-girlfriend, something I've been doing since I came to Bloomington, as the town and campus here remind me of my two months living in Boulder. I thought of how the construction workers would look at me and say, "Rich prick. We work while he listens to his iPod." My response, internally, was, "My ex-girlfriend bought this for me." Not much of a comeback, but it reminded me that, yes, she had bought it for me, had even engraved something on the back, the words that, someday, I would like to title a book with: You Were Right About the Stars.
It's a line taken from the song "Jesus, Etc." by Wilco. Anyone who knows me realizes that I consider Wilco to be the greatest rock group history has ever seen. Though The Beatles may have done more to push music in a different direction, Wilco never sold out the beginning of their career with radio-friendly love songs designed to get them on the charts. Not that those Beatles songs aren't any good. I just don't like them on principle.
To understand the engraved line better, here is some context:
Jesus, don't cry
You can rely on me, honey
You can combine anything you want
I'll be around
You were right about the stars
Each one is a setting sun
One of the things I love about music is its malleability. Music can change shape based on the individual experiences of each and every listener, and since those experiences change, so does the impact of the music.
I don't like getting sentimental, but I need to to explain my point. I loved that girl. In a way that has not been recreated, and is still not forgotten. She was, so to speak, a bright, shining star for me, around which everything I did revolved.
Upon this mini-thought supernova, I played the song. Tweedy introduces it on the Kicking Television album as a mid-tempo rocker, which it is, but it's not something you'll hear anywhere on that kind of radio station. The easy drumming, the strings, Tweedy's cigarette and candy voice. And those words.
It's taken a long time to get over the ex. And this sounds so silly, I know, but this makes sense to me now, like the advice that Allen Ginsburg got when he went to India looking for the same kind of enlightenment he got from his vision of William Blake: If you see something terrible, do not hold onto it. If you see something beautiful, do not hold onto it.
In other words, everything in life is a star, and each one is a setting sun.
Outside the last building I pass before walking up the ramp into Ballantine, some construction workers were taking a cigarette break. I was thinking about my ex-girlfriend, something I've been doing since I came to Bloomington, as the town and campus here remind me of my two months living in Boulder. I thought of how the construction workers would look at me and say, "Rich prick. We work while he listens to his iPod." My response, internally, was, "My ex-girlfriend bought this for me." Not much of a comeback, but it reminded me that, yes, she had bought it for me, had even engraved something on the back, the words that, someday, I would like to title a book with: You Were Right About the Stars.
It's a line taken from the song "Jesus, Etc." by Wilco. Anyone who knows me realizes that I consider Wilco to be the greatest rock group history has ever seen. Though The Beatles may have done more to push music in a different direction, Wilco never sold out the beginning of their career with radio-friendly love songs designed to get them on the charts. Not that those Beatles songs aren't any good. I just don't like them on principle.
To understand the engraved line better, here is some context:
Jesus, don't cry
You can rely on me, honey
You can combine anything you want
I'll be around
You were right about the stars
Each one is a setting sun
One of the things I love about music is its malleability. Music can change shape based on the individual experiences of each and every listener, and since those experiences change, so does the impact of the music.
I don't like getting sentimental, but I need to to explain my point. I loved that girl. In a way that has not been recreated, and is still not forgotten. She was, so to speak, a bright, shining star for me, around which everything I did revolved.
Upon this mini-thought supernova, I played the song. Tweedy introduces it on the Kicking Television album as a mid-tempo rocker, which it is, but it's not something you'll hear anywhere on that kind of radio station. The easy drumming, the strings, Tweedy's cigarette and candy voice. And those words.
It's taken a long time to get over the ex. And this sounds so silly, I know, but this makes sense to me now, like the advice that Allen Ginsburg got when he went to India looking for the same kind of enlightenment he got from his vision of William Blake: If you see something terrible, do not hold onto it. If you see something beautiful, do not hold onto it.
In other words, everything in life is a star, and each one is a setting sun.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Ooh La La
The first time I heard the Faces song "Ooh La La" it was on Rod Stewart's 1998 album When We Were the New Boys. I remember reading the liner notes, an interview with Rod (I think), and the writer was asking Rod how it felt to cover the Faces after so many years. I had no idea who the Faces were at that point, so I figured it was just an influential band Rod knew of.
Several years later, I finally watched Rushmore, the Wes Anderson film (his second, I believe, after Bottle Rocket). The concluding song is "Ooh La La," but in this version the singer was not Rod Stewart. I did some research and found out that the Faces, who performed the original, were a British rock group that lasted from 1969 to 1975. And, lo and behold, around that time that I was watching Rushmore, the Faces were coming out with a brand new box set, described by allmusic.com as such: "There has never been a better box set than the Faces' Five Guys Walk into a Bar.... There has never been a box [set] that captures an artist so perfectly, nor has a box set taken greater advantage of unreleased and rare material, to the point where it seems as essential and vital as the released recordings. Simply put, there's never been a box set as necessary as this, since it tells the band's entire tale and explains exactly what the fuss is all about."
So, in December of 2004, I requested this box set for Christmas, and it was duly given. Beautifully packaged, the case is the shape of a book, with a nice, matte-like finish to the cover. The discs sit inside, two to a page, overlapping, to keep the size of the case small, and not long, like most four-disc box sets, which are unable to fit on some shelves. After many a listen, I had to agree with allmusic.com. The Faces were amazing. But they weren't amazing because they made the best music of their time, or because they were the best in their genre, or anything above average like that. They were amazing because they wrote and played music that they wanted to hear: straight, three-minute guitar rockers (Too Bad), seven-minute plus electric washouts (Around the Plynth/Gasoline Alley), head-bobbing afternoon-drive piano lilts (Glad and Sorry), and stunning, emotional covers (Maybe I'm Amazed). The Faces made music because it was fun and it sounded good. That's it. A single-disc greatest hits collection from 1999, Good Boys... When They're Asleep, hints at their lovable, tousle-haired nature. The liner notes to the box set are extensive and intimate, with photos from recording sessions and performances, and discussions of the bars the band would set up on stage, to keep the beer and liquor flowing during shows. They were a band that, as Lester Bangs might say (at least from his rant in the beginning of Almost Famous), "had the courage to be drunken buffoons, which makes them poetic."
So "Ooh La La." The recorded version, the Faces version, sounds so strange to me, and was significant as a cover for Rod, because it was sung by Ron Wood, the guitarist who, in 1976, would join the Rolling Stones (a post he continues to fill today). The liner notes to the box set declare that Ronnie Lane, the bassist and sometimes singer/songwriter for the Faces, was ill (or not present?) the day of that session, and Rod declared that the song was out of his vocal range. Thus, Ron Wood. Apparently, while recording, the other members of the band sat in the studio, laughing and making fun of Ron's singing. As far as I know, it is the only song Ron Wood sang on a Faces record. Yet, if you were to play an assortment of Faces songs to your average non-music personality, "Ooh La La" is probably the only track they might recognize.
Simple, opening with a soft, warm acoustic rhythm, the song is inviting, a story of a grandfather's advice to his grandson regarding men's biggest problem, women. The sing-along hook, "I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger," is neither deep nor extremely philosophical. It is a simple yearn, an honest insight into the nature of human relations and experience. Not a lamentation, only an observation. Like the Faces themselves, it is straightforward, true, and will continue to resonate as long as joy - in life, in music, in anything - is an ideal to which people hold tight.
For more on the Faces, check out these links/websites:
allmusic.com entry
Faces Official Website
wikipedia entry
Several years later, I finally watched Rushmore, the Wes Anderson film (his second, I believe, after Bottle Rocket). The concluding song is "Ooh La La," but in this version the singer was not Rod Stewart. I did some research and found out that the Faces, who performed the original, were a British rock group that lasted from 1969 to 1975. And, lo and behold, around that time that I was watching Rushmore, the Faces were coming out with a brand new box set, described by allmusic.com as such: "There has never been a better box set than the Faces' Five Guys Walk into a Bar.... There has never been a box [set] that captures an artist so perfectly, nor has a box set taken greater advantage of unreleased and rare material, to the point where it seems as essential and vital as the released recordings. Simply put, there's never been a box set as necessary as this, since it tells the band's entire tale and explains exactly what the fuss is all about."
So, in December of 2004, I requested this box set for Christmas, and it was duly given. Beautifully packaged, the case is the shape of a book, with a nice, matte-like finish to the cover. The discs sit inside, two to a page, overlapping, to keep the size of the case small, and not long, like most four-disc box sets, which are unable to fit on some shelves. After many a listen, I had to agree with allmusic.com. The Faces were amazing. But they weren't amazing because they made the best music of their time, or because they were the best in their genre, or anything above average like that. They were amazing because they wrote and played music that they wanted to hear: straight, three-minute guitar rockers (Too Bad), seven-minute plus electric washouts (Around the Plynth/Gasoline Alley), head-bobbing afternoon-drive piano lilts (Glad and Sorry), and stunning, emotional covers (Maybe I'm Amazed). The Faces made music because it was fun and it sounded good. That's it. A single-disc greatest hits collection from 1999, Good Boys... When They're Asleep, hints at their lovable, tousle-haired nature. The liner notes to the box set are extensive and intimate, with photos from recording sessions and performances, and discussions of the bars the band would set up on stage, to keep the beer and liquor flowing during shows. They were a band that, as Lester Bangs might say (at least from his rant in the beginning of Almost Famous), "had the courage to be drunken buffoons, which makes them poetic."
So "Ooh La La." The recorded version, the Faces version, sounds so strange to me, and was significant as a cover for Rod, because it was sung by Ron Wood, the guitarist who, in 1976, would join the Rolling Stones (a post he continues to fill today). The liner notes to the box set declare that Ronnie Lane, the bassist and sometimes singer/songwriter for the Faces, was ill (or not present?) the day of that session, and Rod declared that the song was out of his vocal range. Thus, Ron Wood. Apparently, while recording, the other members of the band sat in the studio, laughing and making fun of Ron's singing. As far as I know, it is the only song Ron Wood sang on a Faces record. Yet, if you were to play an assortment of Faces songs to your average non-music personality, "Ooh La La" is probably the only track they might recognize.
Simple, opening with a soft, warm acoustic rhythm, the song is inviting, a story of a grandfather's advice to his grandson regarding men's biggest problem, women. The sing-along hook, "I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger," is neither deep nor extremely philosophical. It is a simple yearn, an honest insight into the nature of human relations and experience. Not a lamentation, only an observation. Like the Faces themselves, it is straightforward, true, and will continue to resonate as long as joy - in life, in music, in anything - is an ideal to which people hold tight.
For more on the Faces, check out these links/websites:
allmusic.com entry
Faces Official Website
wikipedia entry
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Scenic World
Whenever I listen to the album Gulag Orkestar by Beirut, I want to fight in the Spanish Civil War. That's a terrible association, because the album is beautiful, but the Spanish Civil War, or any war for that matter, was/is not. Hemingway did his best to present war the way it was, straight up, without romanticizing it; but, either due to the things he did in life or simply the way he did things in life is presented, I think it's safe to say that Hemingway has been romanticized enough to make fighting in the Spanish Civil War look like a noble thing. Perhaps I should check my wording. Because in a way, depending on your politics, it is a noble thing to defend your ideals by any means necessary. Nonetheless, that doesn't mean that death is any prettier for nobility.
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