Sara watched her father as he put on his court robes. He turned and smiled at her as he buckled his tunic, then went and kissed her forehead.
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly. She bit her lip, and nodded. “All right, then.” He took her hand, and together they stepped into the capsule. Sara tried as usual to stand without support during the take-off, but she was forced to grab her father’s arm as the capsule jerked and plummeted. She looked up and forced out a sickly, nervous smile.
“Before I leave you, my dear, I have a few words. I’ve taught you all I could, you’ve learned well. I could not leave my world in the hands of anyone else who I’d feel more sure of. I know you will learn quickly.
“There are two people to whom I commend you, for help and advice. The first is Darien. I know you will go to him if you need help, I do not need to tell you. What I want to tell you is, remember who is Guardian. My one worry is that you will let your respect for Darien prevent you from making your own decisions. He is wise and experienced, but he does not know everything. No one knows everything. Take his advice, but trust your own judgement as well. He is your advisor, not your superior. Do you understand?” She nodded silently, and he continued.
“There is another, an old friend of mine. He is an outcast, a renegade. But he is honest, and I have asked him to be to you what he was to me– another advisor, helper, and friend. Many times there has been a situation in which his help saved our world. He will contact you, probably, soon after you come home. It is for you to decide whether or not you will accept his help; I can only tell you that he has proved for me to be trustworthy, brave, and loyal. Needless to say, I went behind consular law in meeting with him. Again, remember, no one knows everything, not even the council. You are responsible for your own decisions.”
Just then the capsule arrived at the chamber, and they stepped out. All the councillors were gathered, and bowed as Sara and her father stepped out. They went to the President and stood before him. He stepped forward and took Sara’s hand.
“Greetings, Sara. We are glad that you can join us.”
“The honour is mine,” she replied quietly, at the same time dipping low and bowing her head.
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of this council, the safety of your people, and the honour of this nation, for as long as you hold your post?”
“I do.”
“Good.” He turned to her father. “You have been a faithful and worthy Guardian of your people. Go now, into the rest you have earned.” Then he smiled, and his tone became warmer and less ceremonial. “Peace be with you, my friend. You will be missed.”
Sara’s father bowed low. “I thank you, my president and council, for the honour of serving the nation, and I go with grief to leave and joy to come.”
Then Sara and her father turned and walked to the center of the room, to the great circle in the middle of the floor. They faced each other, and slowly her father put his hands to his neck. She stood, heart beating fast, and as he hesitated, fear rose in her heart. It had happened before, that at the vital moment a Guardian was unable to surrender the medallion that symbolised everything he lived for. But after a moment of struggle, a smile passed over her father’s face, he lifted the leather strap, and placed it around her neck.
Instantly the world became heavier for Sara. She forgot the Council-chamber, the assembled councillors, even her own father standing before her, and her mind flew back to her home– now more– now her world, her planet, her people. She remembered, just that morning, the chambermaid bowing as she passed Sara in the hall– an ordinary event, but suddenly somehow transformed. Why had she not noticed, then, the shadow of a bruise on the chambermaid’s chin? Why had she not stopped to ask after the villagers? Why had she not even glanced at the viewer before leaving, to see that there was no trouble? Anything might have happened since the night... raiders, or a murder, or a flood in the valley... As panic filled her, her father’s hand fell on her shoulder, and she looked in his face. It was old, somehow older than she had ever seen it, but also younger. A few of the lines had lifted, and his smile had a lightness which she had never seen before. “Bear it well, daughter,” he said softly, and his voice held both pity and envy. Then, with a light kiss on her cheek, he stepped into the capsule that waited at the other end of the chamber. One final salute, both merry and sad, and the doors closed, and he was gone.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Friday, September 07, 2007
an unusually good day in the life
Every so often you get a day, or a portion of the day, which is just perfectly satisfying. Here's mine.
I decided I wanted something special for dinner. I'd had the foresight to marinate some chicken, in a champagne-pear salad dressing (I had bought the dressing from Trader Joe's on Mom's recommendation, found it was too sweet for me as a salad dressing, but makes a great marinade), so now I just had to decide how to cook it. Usually when I do chicken and pasta I make a traditional white sauce, but this time I wanted something not quite as thick. A dip into Joy of Cooking gave me the needed inspiration, and I went off to Trader Joe's for my ingredients.
I'd thought I might wait a while before starting to cook, but I was already hungry by the time I got home so I got straight to work. Followed much sizzling of olive oil, chopping of onions and garlic and mushrooms, simmering of chicken broth, mincing of fresh thyme. I had about a shot's worth of cognac left-- half of it went in the sauce, half of it went in the baby snifter I got at Oglethorpe's homecoming one year. Also some heavy cream, and of course salt and pepper. The result? A very thin, slightly creamy sauce, laden with chopped-up onions and mushrooms, and smelling heavenly.
I had intended to eat my dinner while watching the first of the two-part Dr Who, the conclusion of which was airing and being recorded as I finished my cooking. When you have a really lovely meal, though, it's an insult to eat it in front of the television,* so instead I got my Andrew Lang and read all about how Petru, the youngest of three princes, fought three Welwas and met three goddesses and came home to rule the kingdom. It's funny, I don't remember the story at all, but I recognized the picture of the Welwa the minute I saw it.
*(This rule is inviolable. The best accompaniment to an excellent meal is of course good company and conversation. Lacking this, a book is acceptable, but it must be both well-written and entertaining. Pulpy paperbacks are disallowed, as are textbooks. Under no circumstances may the meal, if the food be really of top quality, be accompanied by anything on a screen: television or computer. This rule, however, only applies to freshly prepared food. Carryout and leftovers are exempt.)
And it really was an excellent meal. Not only that, but it was exactly what I'd been wanting. Come over some time and I'll make it for you.
And then-- ah then-- came time to watch that Dr Who. Some of you were privileged (ay, privileged) to hear my wailing and gnashing of teeth two weeks ago, when I found that not only was the current episode ending on a cliffhanger, but the continuation wouldn't air till two weeks hence. It was, as I commented at the time, the first time I have ever had to wait on a cliffhanger for this best-loved of all shows. Oh sweet torment... anyway, I weathered the interim weeks surprisingly well, though I was obliged to watch the entirety of the 9th Doctor season on DVD to fill the void. But at last, the day was come. Having had the supreme satisfaction of eating an excellent meal of my own cooking, and finishing the last of my cognac, I was now to see the much-waited resolution.
This is usually the point in the evening where something goes wrong: the recording misfires, the roommate comes down and turns on the television before I have time to dibs it, something like that. If we were permitted moments of perfect satisfaction very often, they wouldn't be notable enough to write blog entries about. On this occasion, nothing went wrong.
It was really a very good episode. I have been unusually impressed by a few of the third season episodes (Gridlock springs to mind) and this one stands with them. The acting and direction were beautiful and intriguing in a number of instances (the human forms of the blood hunters, for example, managing to be what so few Dr Who villains are: weird but not comical.) And of course the remarkable Thomas Sangster, with his ten-year-old face and fifty-year-old eyes. And the story had two infallible sources of fascination for me. First there's the merciless digging into what it means and what it costs to be the Doctor (a popular theme in the new series; I'm philosophically ambivalent about its continued use, but I always enjoy seeing it). Then there's the World War I melancholy, which has enthralled me since I first read Rilla of Ingleside.
So now my stomach is filled with lovely food and my mind is filled with lovely Doctor, and just at this moment I really couldn't ask for more. This is what a great day is like: not thrilling happenings or lifechanging news, but simple, peaceful pleasures, enjoyed to the full.
And now to finish up, I think I will listen to some Nina Simone, write the second half of that fairy tale I started, and drink the 90-minute IPA that I've been saving for a month. And it will be good.
***
Post Scriptum: If you ever have the impulse to listen to Nina Simone with your eyes closed, go ahead and do it, but be careful. I think one could die of it.
I decided I wanted something special for dinner. I'd had the foresight to marinate some chicken, in a champagne-pear salad dressing (I had bought the dressing from Trader Joe's on Mom's recommendation, found it was too sweet for me as a salad dressing, but makes a great marinade), so now I just had to decide how to cook it. Usually when I do chicken and pasta I make a traditional white sauce, but this time I wanted something not quite as thick. A dip into Joy of Cooking gave me the needed inspiration, and I went off to Trader Joe's for my ingredients.
I'd thought I might wait a while before starting to cook, but I was already hungry by the time I got home so I got straight to work. Followed much sizzling of olive oil, chopping of onions and garlic and mushrooms, simmering of chicken broth, mincing of fresh thyme. I had about a shot's worth of cognac left-- half of it went in the sauce, half of it went in the baby snifter I got at Oglethorpe's homecoming one year. Also some heavy cream, and of course salt and pepper. The result? A very thin, slightly creamy sauce, laden with chopped-up onions and mushrooms, and smelling heavenly.
I had intended to eat my dinner while watching the first of the two-part Dr Who, the conclusion of which was airing and being recorded as I finished my cooking. When you have a really lovely meal, though, it's an insult to eat it in front of the television,* so instead I got my Andrew Lang and read all about how Petru, the youngest of three princes, fought three Welwas and met three goddesses and came home to rule the kingdom. It's funny, I don't remember the story at all, but I recognized the picture of the Welwa the minute I saw it.
*(This rule is inviolable. The best accompaniment to an excellent meal is of course good company and conversation. Lacking this, a book is acceptable, but it must be both well-written and entertaining. Pulpy paperbacks are disallowed, as are textbooks. Under no circumstances may the meal, if the food be really of top quality, be accompanied by anything on a screen: television or computer. This rule, however, only applies to freshly prepared food. Carryout and leftovers are exempt.)
And it really was an excellent meal. Not only that, but it was exactly what I'd been wanting. Come over some time and I'll make it for you.
And then-- ah then-- came time to watch that Dr Who. Some of you were privileged (ay, privileged) to hear my wailing and gnashing of teeth two weeks ago, when I found that not only was the current episode ending on a cliffhanger, but the continuation wouldn't air till two weeks hence. It was, as I commented at the time, the first time I have ever had to wait on a cliffhanger for this best-loved of all shows. Oh sweet torment... anyway, I weathered the interim weeks surprisingly well, though I was obliged to watch the entirety of the 9th Doctor season on DVD to fill the void. But at last, the day was come. Having had the supreme satisfaction of eating an excellent meal of my own cooking, and finishing the last of my cognac, I was now to see the much-waited resolution.
This is usually the point in the evening where something goes wrong: the recording misfires, the roommate comes down and turns on the television before I have time to dibs it, something like that. If we were permitted moments of perfect satisfaction very often, they wouldn't be notable enough to write blog entries about. On this occasion, nothing went wrong.
It was really a very good episode. I have been unusually impressed by a few of the third season episodes (Gridlock springs to mind) and this one stands with them. The acting and direction were beautiful and intriguing in a number of instances (the human forms of the blood hunters, for example, managing to be what so few Dr Who villains are: weird but not comical.) And of course the remarkable Thomas Sangster, with his ten-year-old face and fifty-year-old eyes. And the story had two infallible sources of fascination for me. First there's the merciless digging into what it means and what it costs to be the Doctor (a popular theme in the new series; I'm philosophically ambivalent about its continued use, but I always enjoy seeing it). Then there's the World War I melancholy, which has enthralled me since I first read Rilla of Ingleside.
So now my stomach is filled with lovely food and my mind is filled with lovely Doctor, and just at this moment I really couldn't ask for more. This is what a great day is like: not thrilling happenings or lifechanging news, but simple, peaceful pleasures, enjoyed to the full.
And now to finish up, I think I will listen to some Nina Simone, write the second half of that fairy tale I started, and drink the 90-minute IPA that I've been saving for a month. And it will be good.
***
Post Scriptum: If you ever have the impulse to listen to Nina Simone with your eyes closed, go ahead and do it, but be careful. I think one could die of it.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
hijacked by Andrew Lang
I'm not sure what just happened.
Earlier today, facing the imminent need to write a couple of short fairy tales as part of my novel, I went to the library and checked out a few of the Andrew Lang fairy books. You know the ones: The Blue Fairy Book, The Green Fairy Book, The Brown Fairy Book... okay, probably you don't know them. Probably you didn't spend your childhood in the JFIC folktale section of the library. But I did, and I must have read through the entire rainbow collection (though I think I snubbed the more basic colors like red and yellow, in favor of The Crimson and The Lilac and such... The Brown was always my favorite.) Anyway, they're great collections of fairy tales from a wide variety of sources, and I decided to return to this fountain from my youth and drink deep, in hopes of soaking up inspiration for my own writing.
Drink I did, for three hours at Jamie's. I'd forgotten how great the stories are, weird some of them, funny some of them, often conforming to very familiar patterns but every so often popping up with something quite unexpected. Several struck me as stories I'd like to adapt or retell in novel form, and one in particular I thought I might do for my Nano project this year. (I'm still planning to do Nano, though I'm in full swing with the novel... by November I'll probably be ready for a little break from Lila & Co.)
Having downed three cups of coffee, a fat slice of chocolate cake, and more fairy tales than I can count, I set off home, musing on the way about how I might construct that retelling for Nano. I took the long way home. An hour long, as it happens-- I just didn't feel like stopping once I'd gotten to my house, so I kept driving. And thinking. And driving. It was a beautiful night to be rolling down back roads with the windows open, insects chirping like they owned the woods, which in a way they probably do. And there came one moment, as I was composing the first few sentences of the retelling in my head, when I felt that sudden thrilling urge of creation, prompting me to get home and write it, now.
Well, one thing I've learned is that these urges don't keep. I may be all on fire with the excitement of a new idea, but if I put it off, sometimes even for as little as a day, I will sit down to my keyboard to find that the thrill is gone. I will discover that the idea, so brilliant in that moment, is dull now and full of difficulties, and if I ever actually write it it will be after hours and weeks of dogged plot-work. But in that initial moment of inspiration there is an energy and a passion, which I far too often fail to take advantage of.
Tonight I did not fail. I came home by the quickest route, opened my computer, and began typing. Initially my thought was to a two- or three-page sketch, using a storytelling voice, but telling it in abbreviated form, something for me to flesh out at novel-depth when November came around. But as I wrote the details kept creeping in, and by the third page I had barely begun to tell the story. I wondered if I was going to eat ever, or watch a Dr. Who as I had planned, but I was enjoying myself, so I kept going.
Seven thousand words later, here I am. Seven thousand-- I'm fairly certain I've never written that much at a sitting before. Ever. If I kept to a pace like that during Nano, I'd be done in a week. I am mind-boggled... and it went so quickly and easily, and nothing could have been more delightful than to watch the story rolling out in front of me as I typed. I stopped, in the end, only halfway through the story I planned to tell. I felt I could have gone on, but my energy was flagging a bit, and I know I'd have skipped some enjoyable details.
As I said, I don't really know what happened. Nor do I know what I plan to do with this story. At this rate, it looks like it will wrap up around 15,000 words, which is a strange and awkward length for a story. I have a few ideas. We'll see.
Anyway, that was not at all how I planned to spend my evening. But it sure was fun.
Earlier today, facing the imminent need to write a couple of short fairy tales as part of my novel, I went to the library and checked out a few of the Andrew Lang fairy books. You know the ones: The Blue Fairy Book, The Green Fairy Book, The Brown Fairy Book... okay, probably you don't know them. Probably you didn't spend your childhood in the JFIC folktale section of the library. But I did, and I must have read through the entire rainbow collection (though I think I snubbed the more basic colors like red and yellow, in favor of The Crimson and The Lilac and such... The Brown was always my favorite.) Anyway, they're great collections of fairy tales from a wide variety of sources, and I decided to return to this fountain from my youth and drink deep, in hopes of soaking up inspiration for my own writing.
Drink I did, for three hours at Jamie's. I'd forgotten how great the stories are, weird some of them, funny some of them, often conforming to very familiar patterns but every so often popping up with something quite unexpected. Several struck me as stories I'd like to adapt or retell in novel form, and one in particular I thought I might do for my Nano project this year. (I'm still planning to do Nano, though I'm in full swing with the novel... by November I'll probably be ready for a little break from Lila & Co.)
Having downed three cups of coffee, a fat slice of chocolate cake, and more fairy tales than I can count, I set off home, musing on the way about how I might construct that retelling for Nano. I took the long way home. An hour long, as it happens-- I just didn't feel like stopping once I'd gotten to my house, so I kept driving. And thinking. And driving. It was a beautiful night to be rolling down back roads with the windows open, insects chirping like they owned the woods, which in a way they probably do. And there came one moment, as I was composing the first few sentences of the retelling in my head, when I felt that sudden thrilling urge of creation, prompting me to get home and write it, now.
Well, one thing I've learned is that these urges don't keep. I may be all on fire with the excitement of a new idea, but if I put it off, sometimes even for as little as a day, I will sit down to my keyboard to find that the thrill is gone. I will discover that the idea, so brilliant in that moment, is dull now and full of difficulties, and if I ever actually write it it will be after hours and weeks of dogged plot-work. But in that initial moment of inspiration there is an energy and a passion, which I far too often fail to take advantage of.
Tonight I did not fail. I came home by the quickest route, opened my computer, and began typing. Initially my thought was to a two- or three-page sketch, using a storytelling voice, but telling it in abbreviated form, something for me to flesh out at novel-depth when November came around. But as I wrote the details kept creeping in, and by the third page I had barely begun to tell the story. I wondered if I was going to eat ever, or watch a Dr. Who as I had planned, but I was enjoying myself, so I kept going.
Seven thousand words later, here I am. Seven thousand-- I'm fairly certain I've never written that much at a sitting before. Ever. If I kept to a pace like that during Nano, I'd be done in a week. I am mind-boggled... and it went so quickly and easily, and nothing could have been more delightful than to watch the story rolling out in front of me as I typed. I stopped, in the end, only halfway through the story I planned to tell. I felt I could have gone on, but my energy was flagging a bit, and I know I'd have skipped some enjoyable details.
As I said, I don't really know what happened. Nor do I know what I plan to do with this story. At this rate, it looks like it will wrap up around 15,000 words, which is a strange and awkward length for a story. I have a few ideas. We'll see.
Anyway, that was not at all how I planned to spend my evening. But it sure was fun.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
What I learned on my summer vacation
That would be the beach vacation, not any of the other three I took this summer.
- A walk along the beach provides absolutely the best environment for meditating on your next story developments.
- Grease burns hurt like the devil. But they're a great way to take your mind off the minor sunburn on your shins.
- I need to learn to sail.
- If you must put pieces from two different puzzles in the same box, due to box shortage and complete absence of ziploc bags, you really ought to make them puzzles with notably different-sized pieces (really I think I could have worked this one out via common sense. So perhaps the real lesson here is that the owners of our beach house lack common sense in the area of puzzles.)
- My family has higher standards in the way of kitchens and kitchen appliances than just about anybody I know. Much, much higher than those of aforementioned beach house owners.
- The Outer Banks wireless network is kind of a ripoff. Nick the tech support guy is very nice though. Spent lots of quality time talking to Nick.
- Excellent summer beers include: Dogfish Head's Aprihop, Delirium Tremens, and Unibroue's Ephemere.
- The ocean is happiness. But I knew that already.
- A walk along the beach provides absolutely the best environment for meditating on your next story developments.
- Grease burns hurt like the devil. But they're a great way to take your mind off the minor sunburn on your shins.
- I need to learn to sail.
- If you must put pieces from two different puzzles in the same box, due to box shortage and complete absence of ziploc bags, you really ought to make them puzzles with notably different-sized pieces (really I think I could have worked this one out via common sense. So perhaps the real lesson here is that the owners of our beach house lack common sense in the area of puzzles.)
- My family has higher standards in the way of kitchens and kitchen appliances than just about anybody I know. Much, much higher than those of aforementioned beach house owners.
- The Outer Banks wireless network is kind of a ripoff. Nick the tech support guy is very nice though. Spent lots of quality time talking to Nick.
- Excellent summer beers include: Dogfish Head's Aprihop, Delirium Tremens, and Unibroue's Ephemere.
- The ocean is happiness. But I knew that already.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
fading everything
it's been a long December
Oh I am in a college mood. It's glorious fun. It's been a while since I had one. College mood means I listen to Counting Crows and sip my drink (it used to be wine but these days it's beer... Old Rasputin tonight, and if you've never tried Old Rasputin with fresh avocado then your life is incomplete, as mine was until about twenty minutes ago) and I think about love and loneliness. I do not cry, in college moods, that's reserved for nights when I have a specific reason for meditation or discontent. I just sit here and sip my drink and listen to music that reminds me of all these times in my not-so-distant-past (remember when we met Jacob's new friend, I don't even remember his name, but we knew he was cool because he could sing along with all the words to all the songs on August and Everything After? Remember when we listened to Long December and thought, yeah, man, this yearwill be better than the last, and we were completely, utterly, impossibly wrong? Remember when we were walking back from the Counting Crows concert, where Adam Duritz wore a pink bunny suit 'cause it was Halloween, and I called you "Ginny" by mistake?)
step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
And we would sit around then and talk about love and loneliness, and it was basically the same thing then as now because neither of us knew anything about love, and both of us were lonely, except not really that lonely because here we were together talking about it. And we talked about lots of other things too, philosophies of life and lots and lots of decisions about our futures, and you switched from business to philosophy and I committed to English because reading stories is what I love to do most in the whole entire world... and papers and problems and people spun through our conversations always, never concluded, never old.
It is impossible to go back, and I know that. And I like to think that if I come again to live with you it will not be because I'm trying to go back, to recapture this time. Anyway I don't want to recapture it, because I know what comes next: I know how bitter, bitter, those conversations will become, all filled with the darkness and futility of existence, all driven by a demon neither of us yet understand... and that one night where I honestly believe that I will never, ever be happy again.
I bought myself a grey guitar
And while I would never for even a second want to relive all that, I am so so glad it happened, because now sometimes I am driving down the road and I remember that once I thought I would never ever be happy again, and if I was wrong about that I am probably wrong about so many other things too, and this is good.
And so I am not trying to recapture the past, but I am absolutely trying to recover a bit of it, a piece of it at least, because in the years between I have thought I am too adult, too mature, too conscious to engage in this kind of ridiculous omphaloskeptic brooding, and this self-indulgent writing about my transient little moods. And I was emotionally superior to it all, and much much too wise to hope for anything worthwhile to come out of falling in love. And yet what did I do, not even twelve months ago, but drive five hours at dawn and plop myself on your floor and pour out all my thoughts and confusions and frustrations about-- what else?-- a boy.
lay me down in a field of flame and heather...
And you of course listened well, and because you have known me for six terrible and wonderful years, you could say things that made perfect sense and that helped me to understand why I thought what I thought and felt what I felt. And on that day, without at all trying, you gave me back to myself, and all my confusion was -- not resolved -- but for the first time it made sense, and I knew how to fit it into the rest of my world. And I received it, as a repayment I never expected for a trial I never resented, grace upon grace coming back in return for a pain I took on gladly in the first place. Astonishing.
and when you wake the morning covers you with light
Anyway what I guess I'm trying to say is that it is time for me to re-enter the world of love and loneliness and meditative late-night drinking while listening to Adam Duritz, and to shake off the frozen paralysis that has been partly pride and mostly fear.
surprise surprise another pair of lips and eyes
And perhaps there will be other nights when I honestly believe I will never be happy again, though probably for different reasons, and all that is okay because these nights become a part of your history, become something you meditate on on other nights, nights mellow with the taste of avocado and Old Rasputin (no really... you must try it) and dulled for a minute from fear because you remember how rich it was to feel so many things at once.
And what I really want to say, with all this rambling that I normally do not permit myself, is that as I move back into the world of feeling and foolishness, with fear and trembling and also hope, there is no one I would rather have at my side than you.
Oh I am in a college mood. It's glorious fun. It's been a while since I had one. College mood means I listen to Counting Crows and sip my drink (it used to be wine but these days it's beer... Old Rasputin tonight, and if you've never tried Old Rasputin with fresh avocado then your life is incomplete, as mine was until about twenty minutes ago) and I think about love and loneliness. I do not cry, in college moods, that's reserved for nights when I have a specific reason for meditation or discontent. I just sit here and sip my drink and listen to music that reminds me of all these times in my not-so-distant-past (remember when we met Jacob's new friend, I don't even remember his name, but we knew he was cool because he could sing along with all the words to all the songs on August and Everything After? Remember when we listened to Long December and thought, yeah, man, this yearwill be better than the last, and we were completely, utterly, impossibly wrong? Remember when we were walking back from the Counting Crows concert, where Adam Duritz wore a pink bunny suit 'cause it was Halloween, and I called you "Ginny" by mistake?)
step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
And we would sit around then and talk about love and loneliness, and it was basically the same thing then as now because neither of us knew anything about love, and both of us were lonely, except not really that lonely because here we were together talking about it. And we talked about lots of other things too, philosophies of life and lots and lots of decisions about our futures, and you switched from business to philosophy and I committed to English because reading stories is what I love to do most in the whole entire world... and papers and problems and people spun through our conversations always, never concluded, never old.
It is impossible to go back, and I know that. And I like to think that if I come again to live with you it will not be because I'm trying to go back, to recapture this time. Anyway I don't want to recapture it, because I know what comes next: I know how bitter, bitter, those conversations will become, all filled with the darkness and futility of existence, all driven by a demon neither of us yet understand... and that one night where I honestly believe that I will never, ever be happy again.
I bought myself a grey guitar
And while I would never for even a second want to relive all that, I am so so glad it happened, because now sometimes I am driving down the road and I remember that once I thought I would never ever be happy again, and if I was wrong about that I am probably wrong about so many other things too, and this is good.
And so I am not trying to recapture the past, but I am absolutely trying to recover a bit of it, a piece of it at least, because in the years between I have thought I am too adult, too mature, too conscious to engage in this kind of ridiculous omphaloskeptic brooding, and this self-indulgent writing about my transient little moods. And I was emotionally superior to it all, and much much too wise to hope for anything worthwhile to come out of falling in love. And yet what did I do, not even twelve months ago, but drive five hours at dawn and plop myself on your floor and pour out all my thoughts and confusions and frustrations about-- what else?-- a boy.
lay me down in a field of flame and heather...
And you of course listened well, and because you have known me for six terrible and wonderful years, you could say things that made perfect sense and that helped me to understand why I thought what I thought and felt what I felt. And on that day, without at all trying, you gave me back to myself, and all my confusion was -- not resolved -- but for the first time it made sense, and I knew how to fit it into the rest of my world. And I received it, as a repayment I never expected for a trial I never resented, grace upon grace coming back in return for a pain I took on gladly in the first place. Astonishing.
and when you wake the morning covers you with light
Anyway what I guess I'm trying to say is that it is time for me to re-enter the world of love and loneliness and meditative late-night drinking while listening to Adam Duritz, and to shake off the frozen paralysis that has been partly pride and mostly fear.
surprise surprise another pair of lips and eyes
And perhaps there will be other nights when I honestly believe I will never be happy again, though probably for different reasons, and all that is okay because these nights become a part of your history, become something you meditate on on other nights, nights mellow with the taste of avocado and Old Rasputin (no really... you must try it) and dulled for a minute from fear because you remember how rich it was to feel so many things at once.
And what I really want to say, with all this rambling that I normally do not permit myself, is that as I move back into the world of feeling and foolishness, with fear and trembling and also hope, there is no one I would rather have at my side than you.
Monday, June 25, 2007
a small taste of victory
I took two weeks off work and drove to Chicago. The freedom therein is glorious: I have two weeks that are my own, entirely, to spend however I want, money being the only limitation. I have planned to go to Chicago, and I want to go to Chicago, but if I feel like it I can change my mind at the last minute and drive instead to Mexico or Oregon or anywhere on the continent, actually. My decisions are just about as unconstrained as they get for a single woman in her mid-twenties who pulls down a smallish salary (and that, let's face it, is pretty unconstrained.)
What did I do with all this riotous freedom? I drove, as stated, to Chicago. I ensconced myself firmly on the couch in my brother's living room. I found a coffee shop that I could walk to from my brother's house. And for ten out of the fourteen days I was there I wrote, usually at the coffee shop, for three or four or five hours on end. I went to the beach once, I hung out in the evenings with friends, but mostly I wrote.
And this is the best part, this is the victory: my brother has also been writing. His kitchen is littered with scripts from the sketch show he and his roommates are writing, for which they've already booked a theater. He's acting, too, I got to see his play twice. So as I sit here, having finished the opening act of my novel, making plans to return to Chicago to see the show my brother has written and is acting in and directing... I'm just so freakin proud. Of both of us. Because we're doing what we wanted to do, what we said we wanted to do back when we were in high school. Because we haven't gotten pulled under by the necessity of supporting ourselves in the "real world." Sure we both have jobs, which means we have less time for writing than we'd like, and sure we both have fairly minimal jobs, which means we have less money for beer than we'd like, but we're making it work.
Take that, naysayers.
What did I do with all this riotous freedom? I drove, as stated, to Chicago. I ensconced myself firmly on the couch in my brother's living room. I found a coffee shop that I could walk to from my brother's house. And for ten out of the fourteen days I was there I wrote, usually at the coffee shop, for three or four or five hours on end. I went to the beach once, I hung out in the evenings with friends, but mostly I wrote.
And this is the best part, this is the victory: my brother has also been writing. His kitchen is littered with scripts from the sketch show he and his roommates are writing, for which they've already booked a theater. He's acting, too, I got to see his play twice. So as I sit here, having finished the opening act of my novel, making plans to return to Chicago to see the show my brother has written and is acting in and directing... I'm just so freakin proud. Of both of us. Because we're doing what we wanted to do, what we said we wanted to do back when we were in high school. Because we haven't gotten pulled under by the necessity of supporting ourselves in the "real world." Sure we both have jobs, which means we have less time for writing than we'd like, and sure we both have fairly minimal jobs, which means we have less money for beer than we'd like, but we're making it work.
Take that, naysayers.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
a small piece of perfection
I think even a lot of friends who know me well don't know that the Barenaked Ladies is my favorite band (is? are? is? most band names are treated as a singular entity, and a plural element in the name shouldn't change that... but I don't know what the article does to it, nor do I know whether it ought to be capitalized. "Are" sounds better but I feel like "is" should be correct.) There are so many bands that I like that are hipper or edgier or what-have-you. As evidenced by the crowd that showed up to the concert last night, BNL fans tend to be over 30, or under 16, and nerdy but not even real hard-core geeky quasi-hip kind of nerdy... just nerdy. There was a distinct lack of image-consciousness in the crowd. There were a lot of families, suggesting that parents consider BNL to be acceptable fun music to expose their children to. Nobody won coolness points by showing up to this concert.
But anyway, they're my favorite band, and I'll tell you why. It's because they think like me. Take their whole decade-spanning album collection, and you have a fairly good picture of my usual mental landscape. You have plenty of whimsy and goofballing, plenty of randomness and look-how-clever-I-am wordplay. You also have plenty of reflectiveness, brooding self-doubt, bitterness of futility, and the occasional raw outcry of pain. There's a dark side to BNL to be sure... but it doesn't overwhelm the landscape, it's just there. And if you pay attention you'll notice that the dark side and the goofball side are fueled by the same force: a persistently ironic view of life, a self-awareness that refuses for a minute to release its grip, and the consequent mistrust of every self-representation you make.
I am not, by and large, a happy person. Nor am I a moody or angry or bitter person. I am not capable of the single-minded passion of Nina Simone; I am hardly ever buried enough in my own emotional state to honestly produce a work of pure emotional force. My moods are always mixed; there is always another self, watching the part of me that is feeling, commenting on it. Mostly, mostly, I am an observing person. The closest I come to being single-minded, to being non-reflective, is when I am not doing anything, just watching other people do. As soon as I become a participant in a scene, I start observing myself, which means I am observing myself observing myself, and... well... if you've seen a chamber of mirrors you know what it's like.
Anyway, I love BNL because their music is like this. Being an ironist in this way seems to prevent you from being ever really depressed, or ever really elated. It's not that your emotions are shallow; it's just that they're always counterbalanced. This tends to make a person, or a band, hard to grasp. You think you know their general mood as happy or fun or easygoing or mild or sarcastic or cynical. And we the ironists have a hard time convincing you that it goes deeper than that, because to honestly express our feelings we have to also express our questioning of those feelings, and our frustration at our questioning, and our amusement at our frustration... and by this time you've forgotten what feeling it was we were originally expressing.
Ah yes, that amusement... elation and depression and rage might be rare and fleeting for us, but one thing we've got in bucketfuls is laughter. We laugh at everything. We laugh at inappropriate times. We laugh because we keep seeing where all this stuff came from and where it's going. We laugh because we're having so much fun watching this bizarre game play itself out. We laugh because we keep seeing our own consciousness rising in a recursive tower, that we can't even stop because as soon as we try to stop ourselves we see ourselves trying to stop ourselves...
You'd laugh too.
But anyway, they're my favorite band, and I'll tell you why. It's because they think like me. Take their whole decade-spanning album collection, and you have a fairly good picture of my usual mental landscape. You have plenty of whimsy and goofballing, plenty of randomness and look-how-clever-I-am wordplay. You also have plenty of reflectiveness, brooding self-doubt, bitterness of futility, and the occasional raw outcry of pain. There's a dark side to BNL to be sure... but it doesn't overwhelm the landscape, it's just there. And if you pay attention you'll notice that the dark side and the goofball side are fueled by the same force: a persistently ironic view of life, a self-awareness that refuses for a minute to release its grip, and the consequent mistrust of every self-representation you make.
I am not, by and large, a happy person. Nor am I a moody or angry or bitter person. I am not capable of the single-minded passion of Nina Simone; I am hardly ever buried enough in my own emotional state to honestly produce a work of pure emotional force. My moods are always mixed; there is always another self, watching the part of me that is feeling, commenting on it. Mostly, mostly, I am an observing person. The closest I come to being single-minded, to being non-reflective, is when I am not doing anything, just watching other people do. As soon as I become a participant in a scene, I start observing myself, which means I am observing myself observing myself, and... well... if you've seen a chamber of mirrors you know what it's like.
Anyway, I love BNL because their music is like this. Being an ironist in this way seems to prevent you from being ever really depressed, or ever really elated. It's not that your emotions are shallow; it's just that they're always counterbalanced. This tends to make a person, or a band, hard to grasp. You think you know their general mood as happy or fun or easygoing or mild or sarcastic or cynical. And we the ironists have a hard time convincing you that it goes deeper than that, because to honestly express our feelings we have to also express our questioning of those feelings, and our frustration at our questioning, and our amusement at our frustration... and by this time you've forgotten what feeling it was we were originally expressing.
Ah yes, that amusement... elation and depression and rage might be rare and fleeting for us, but one thing we've got in bucketfuls is laughter. We laugh at everything. We laugh at inappropriate times. We laugh because we keep seeing where all this stuff came from and where it's going. We laugh because we're having so much fun watching this bizarre game play itself out. We laugh because we keep seeing our own consciousness rising in a recursive tower, that we can't even stop because as soon as we try to stop ourselves we see ourselves trying to stop ourselves...
You'd laugh too.
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