Two Steps Up

Loren was an early riser, relative to the rest of her family, and we'd hang out while I waited for her sister Tina, my best friend, to get out of bed--which usually happened around noon or later. The parents were late sleepers as well, so it was just the two of us up in the house in Wynnewood, doing as we liked. One of the things we liked was to watch Shirley Temple movies. Shirley Temple Theater was off the air by then--it only lasted for three brief years, 1958-61--but somehow we had a taste for her, enough to pursue a learning of her repertoire. We formed our own Shirley Temple Fan Club, with some degree of irony, but that was hard to sustain. Shirley was so enormously talented and charming, and the plots of many of her films sent us out of the television room to an attic in London or an hotel in New York or a southern plantation (yes, we were aware of the awfulness of these plots and settings)--more effectively than nearly anything else. The films were fantastical, and chocked with song and dance, but she embodied innocence and an uncanny ability to make herself heard--a trait alluring to me, I see now.

My favorite was The Little Princess. Shirley's father is lost in the siege of Mafeking, and because her school bills aren't being paid, she must go live in the attic and work at the school rather than being a regular student. (This idea doesn't go away; witness Newt's proposal to make poor students work as janitors in their schools.) I loved her relentless belief that her father was alive, her quest to find him, and the music of the word Mafeking. (When I went to South Africa some years later I very much wanted to see Mafeking--not really a tourist destination.)

Below is another favorite scene. Yes, it is from another era and there are all kinds of things wrong with it in terms of race and class. There remain, however, some points of value; the kindness to a child who doesn't want to go to bed, Bill Robinson's extraordinary dancing, and lesson in teaching.

The emotional content here moves me in two ways, the first being the actual scene shown here, and the second being the depiction of a process of working and learning that feels, if not literally accurate, resonant with what I know of working, learning, teaching. Do the step slowly, move ahead, drop back and do the step again with a bit more speed, move ahead further, and so on. That is still more methodical than I am, but this small scene is an emblem of practicing an art form, any art form. It is the case that for every person now living there has been a great who has gone before us who has figured out all the steps and can be studied as Shirley watches Bill to see how it's done. It is always a great leap forward when a student can look to the geniuses rather than the very goods and see through the perfect creation to the scaffolding underneath.

Loren and I were lucky to have our fan club, because it came about so naturally. There is a great joy in sharing the pleasure of a movie, book, painting, music in the company of another--really sharing it, not just sitting next to each other.  We were young, and it was fun. As one becomes older it becomes harder to reveal the emotion of responding to a work of art at a deep level of being. It's so private to experience moments that resonate with your soul. To show how it feels to read or to watch something meaningful is a self exposure that makes one very vulnerable. Mostly we quickly wipe our tears away, and are sheepish if anyone noticed them. To take an experience that is most usually a communion between artist and an audience of one, and to extend it to an audience of two--two together, in rhythm--is really an experience of love.

Epitaph: She Was Interrupted

Interruption. Here I am at 6 in the morning, getting ready to write, girding against what will intrude.
I know I only have a few hours before I have to stop and do the to-do list.
The dog is snuffling behind me on the bed; can't be helped. The cat is sitting right next to my computer and will need to be stroked periodically--a given.
Cars are roaring past, and every few minutes, an eighteen wheeler. That's life. Coulda, shoulda bought a house on a quiet street. Who knew? It sounded like a tomb compared to 96th Street.
Now I prepare.
1) Clear off the desk. Get everything out of sight except the grey wall. All my books are behind me. I am allowed to keep one book on my desk. It varies. Usually one I know well and can lift and drop. The criterion: good sentences.

My talisman

2) I suit up: fleece socks, Superman fleece pants, a fleece top. Warm slippers. Hair up in a clip. (Note: try to remember to change clothes before going out.)
3) Plug in my blue "fairy lights," as Sarah Englishly calls them. I have them strung around my room, for happiness.
4) Put my talisman next to me.
5) Get my supplies ready and in the right places: a notebook, the right pen, sharpened pencils, a yellow narrow lined legal pad, cat food, a pitcher of water, a cup of coffee, a blanket.
6) Light a candle.
7) Do breathing exercises for 10-15 minutes.
8) Write down the scene I am going to work on for the first stretch. Write down what it needs to do. Write down how it needs to feel.
9) Make sure I'm ready. Settled.
10 ) Turn on Freedom for 120 minutes.
11) Set timer for first session, 25 minutes.
12) Turn on noise cancelling headphones.

Now I begin.

Interruption is the theme of my life, I see that more and more clearly. I have a memory from when I was about eighteen months old, sitting on the beach in Cape May, looking out at my favorite grey ocean rolling toward me, thinking, thinking...I was thinking. Then someone picked me up. Who? I can't remember. Father, Grandfather. Lifted me off the ground, out of my thought, into their impulse to grab me. My thought was lost. I don't know what it was. I was interrupted. I am left with that memory of the vulnerability of my private life, how easily it could be whisked away by the needs of others, and how helpless I was to stop that. I still am. So much interrupts. I have learned to interrupt myself, with thoughts that are unessential and feelings that want to control other feelings, and so on. To write, I have to return to being the small child on the beach looking at the ocean. I know that. I know that in the space between what I thought and what I saw that day was my true mind, my self.
This is the beginning of an essay. Not what I am writing this morning. What I needed to think about to get ready for now, for finishing this story. The one I am writing now.
I often pause to write something like this, a blog post or a diary entry, just before I begin, to be in touch with one of Dicken's ghosts, the future or the past, before I sit in the present.

Dear Diary

One of the Christmas traditions I most enjoy is the afternoon when two good writer friends and I meet, raise a glass, and exchange presents. This year I gave them each a five year diary. Neither of them had ever written a diary regularly before, but they seemed excited to try it. I am curious to hear their experiences after a couple of years.

I have always kept a diary of some sort. I often keep a journal as well. The diary, the five year diary, only offers a few lines per day, and turns out to be a great challenge. Is this something to be written for posterity--or will I write exactly what I want? I think most people feel an onlooker, often judgemental, peering over their shoulders when writing a diary. The convention of addressing it with the word "Dear" implies this. Who out there is Dear--Dear enough to read my secrets? Or is the Dear meant to be ingratiating, to protect myself from harm? Do I tell Dear what it wants to hear and keep the truth to myself? Over time, I have evolved from one to the other. Dear now likes me or not. The question has become, what do I tell myself?

Much of it is dull: I went here, I went there. Some of it is pure emotion; I felt, I hated, I wept. All of it indulges use of the word "I"; a counter to how I was raised not talk about myself. (Like George H.W. Bush!) The diary is allowed to be about me and my reactions to life; my inner Anais Nin. Narcissicitic and self-fascinated. Where else does this fly?

The journal is more complex. It's mainly about writing, but every so often I take an hour or two to record a conversation or an event that I want to remember fully. The writing portion is notations for how to make whatever I am working on tighter, how to pull a metaphor through the scenes; it is an architect's notebook. Very messy. Notes for a map. When I have enough I draw the map, which is prettier, enough so that it can go up on the wall. That's late in the game, though. Mainly it's the wild notebook--quite unlike the tidy chemistry notebook that Gale Boetticher kept on Breaking Bad. Golly, that blew me away. Lines from Whitman, too. He didn't deserve what he got.

From Gale Boetticher's notebook...

Mine looks like this.

Though I don't write it backward as it appears. I don't imagine anyone is looking over my shoulder when I compose this--it is work, and only work. Capable of being immediately junked when I move forward with the project.

The diaries are meant to last, at least until I die, when I hoped they will all be burned, or go in the coffin with me. That would serve me right! If I am buried alive, as my grandfather always feared he would be, at least I'd have some reading material for the last few days. Though what could be more stultifying than reading about oneself while fading away?

I've gotten fairly comfortable with my diary, and tell it a lot. In fact, it's a record of how comfortable I felt writing things down. When I sit with it at night, it makes me aware me of what I choose not to say--how reticent I am. It's good to know my limitations. Keeps me honest.

Letter To A Good Book

My Dearest Book, My Beloved,

I know I have left you alone for a long time now. Before you give up on me completely, let me explain.

My actions, I understand, are hurtful. It is only natural that you feel abandoned; it would be odd if you didn't. I have abandoned you--in the way you conceive of abandonment. I have left you alone. I haven't taken you out in a long time. I have barely touched you, and when I have thought of you, it has always been with the heaviness that comes of imagining how hard it will be to console you, and to reestablish an ease and peacefulness between us. You are too smart and know me way too well for me to hide this from you--your telepathy sees through my defenses and excuses, my sophistries and lies. I can't hide from you--nor do I really want to, no matter what I may say to myself some mornings. I want you; you know it. We can both count on that.

But that is unfair! you say. That lets you off so easily.

I know. I want to see how much I can get away with. You know that.

Stop it! I'm too smart...

I know what you're going to say. That it isn't enough for you to be the only one who really knows me--that's for teenagers. But you are the one who really knows me; I'm the one who is trying to know you. That's no easy task. You keep telling me you are simple, but I find you as complex as they come. You seem all over the place to me. Your looks, your mood, your tone, your behavior--everything has changed in the time I've known you. You are a challenge! Yes, I want that. Yes, that attracts me. I want to know you as well as you know me. When that happens, I believe other people will see us as a couple that couldn't be kept apart, in spite of the difficulty it took for us to be together. We have to be brave. You have to be brave enough to wait for me. I have to be brave enough to set everything else aside for you. Together we have to be brave enough to do what is necessary to become as one. We have to lock ourselves in a room. We have to put each other first.

I know this. I want this. But I am not ready.

Please, Book, try to understand. I knew I wouldn't be able to give you the attention you deserve during the semester, that too many other responsibilities would keep us apart. I have also learned that spending time with you under those conditions doesn't work out well. I am too distracted, and can't keep all of you in mind, as you deserve. You deserve, merit, require my full and undivided attention. When I cannot give it to you, when I can only touch part of you, I get confused. I start to pull you apart. I rage at you. I want to stay away on purpose! You, of course, feel all of this, and you ask for an explanation of my behavior. I, in turn, get frustrated. Why are you so impatient? Haven't I told you you are the most important book in my life? Haven't I promised I will never leave you? Haven't I assured you I am always thinking of you even if I can't be with you? Why can't you remember my reassurances? It's me who has the problem, not you. I need to work it out. Yes, I do feel better when I am with you. But from here to there is a long way--or so it feels. My better self knows it is not.

I know you wanted to spend time together on Christmas. Well, I'm sorry. But Book--don't you know that we will have our Christmases together in the future? Please have faith in me. I love you, even if I don't always say so.

My dearest Book, we love each other most, and therefore want most from the other. You behave toward me the way you want me to behave toward you, and vice versa. You ask for more of my attention, greater consistency, whereas I want to be carefree with you, and come and go as I please. Pick you up and put you down on my time, not yours. Yes, I could reach out to you everyday, if only in a sentence--but I don't want to! Not now. I want to be with you without care--freely! I know you think these are my terms, but they are a luxury for me, and I appreciate them. You are so steadfast. 

Listen, Book--I've never had what we have. Never trusted any book to do this for me. Always felt like I had to perform in order to be safe and loved. You love me deeply enough and are courageous enough to grant me this space. I know it is a lot to ask--especially as you legitimately need me to be with you. I understand. You say you will never be able to reach your potential--we will never reach ours--under those conditions. I know you are right, even if I argue against that. I will do things with you, make you central, take you to bed with me, even if I protest that I won't. Just not yet. Please let me do things my way for now without putting up a fight. I have never been able to do that before. My file drawers are filled with books that have left me, or that I have left because I was afraid they were going to betray me. Please let me have a long leash right now, knowing you are with me. I really am with you and you alone. I may entertain the idea of other projects, but that doesn't mean what you think it does. I am wholly yours.

Book, it has taken me a long time to begin to see you clearly, and I am not there yet. I am trying. I was scared of you for years, because I knew you'd demand of me what I've never done before; to tell the truth. But you--you give me the strength to do what should be done--what I have always wanted to do. Do you have any idea what that means to me? Of course you do. Maybe better than I know it myself. You are so often ahead of me.

Book, I know you want to be with me now. I promise I will spend some time with you during this break. I want to tell you about Aristotle's Poetics, which I just reread. It applies to us. Let me show you what I mean about this. Let's draw a map together, all right? Won't that be fun for us? I want to do something to make you happy. Something you can live off of for...a while.

We have so much between us, so much feeling, so much comprehension, so much love. Trust me. I'll work this out. Soon it will be all about us. Don't pay attention to anything you may hear about me. You know me. You get me. I will get you, too, I promise. That's all that matters.

Love, Your Person

Nausea

I have always defended a person's right to commit suicide, if it can be called a right. Or a choice. It seems so when people seek out a Dr. Kavorkian to help them. I believe that there is a biological imperative toward suicide in mammals that sits inside the genes of some of us. It is a cousin to the death that sits inside us all. We don't have the choice whether or not to die, and some of us don't have a choice about whether or not to commit suicide. It comes, and is carried out.
Yesterday I learned of the suicide of a person I once knew well. It wasn't a surprise that he killed himself; I still have his ID card from Shepard Pratt. He wore that caul all along.
I have always talked about him from the perspective of the end of our relationship, when he was heading for a breakdown, and violent. He threw me down a set of stairs through a glass door--thinking I was his mother, and hurling at me (hurling me) the rage he felt toward her. "You loved Betsy more than me!" Then he tried to run over me with his car. My best friend was with me, and we still speak of it often. Yesterday, when we were remembering him, I reminded her that I had seen him a couple of years later sitting on a bench on Locust Walk, at Penn. I was seriously ill, on my way into the hospital where I'd remain for 10 days on an IV drip of antibiotics. He wanted to talk to me. I couldn't stop. My friend said he probably assumed I didn't recognize him when he wasn't behind the wheel of his car.
Dark humor. That was a joke he'd have laughed at.
He was the most charismatic, wittiest, coolest boy in our college. Older than me. Irresistible and wildly destructive. I have a picture of him that portrays his characteristic style: a faded blue shirt, khakis also faded worn low on his hips, an alligator belt, his face pointing toward the ground, hands pushed into his pockets, his hair cut in curls around a long thin face. Louche and slouchy. Absurdly thin with veined arms that made you want to be a vampire. Somehow he always seemed to be on the post office steps. You'd say hello, and that lowered head would raise like a horse's heavy head, and in a moment he'd be laughing from deep inside that concave chest. Did I mention the cigarette? There was always a cigarette, dangling from his mouth or pinched between the tips of his fingers.
He groaned when he read. He was picky, and poor writing tortured him. His female fans wrote his papers for him. We all had a laugh when he became a successful magazine editor and writer. Who was his ghost then?
He took me to Disney World when it first opened. Can you imagine going there with a person like that? It tortured him, too. Yet it had to be done. He was from Florida and he had to exorcise Florida. He became a New Yorker, in with the in crowd.
He took me to Martha's Vineyard and disappeared every day. Finally he told me he was going to the gay beach, just out of curiosity. There were many women after me, before he became gay. Perhaps we were all a curiosity too.
I don't think it means anything to describe him.
There was an explanation for his suicide, but those explanations always come from the rationalizations of the living, to make the mystery of self erasure less confusing.
Suicides of sacrifice are far more accepted than suicides that seem to be made of sorrow. One unselfish, the other private. We are terribly afraid of what we don't know about another person, or ourselves. The idea that this lives inside is so threatening it is literally criminalized.
But maybe they are coming, coming from the beginning, like all of death.
I have written all this down the way I always write this blog, in a fast unfurling of a skein I've yet done nothing with. This is only partly elegiac. It's also about something else.
It's about being thrown through a glass door, and feeling ashamed of it. I tell the first part of the story, but not about that feeling. It's sickening, sad, and confusing. Like knowing a person is gone.