Zevin's Elsewhere

I'm writing because my unstated, but really more serious, New Year's Resolution was to write about what I read, either here in my blog, or in my journal. But, really, I'm discovering that blogging is more fun.

I just now finished a novel titled Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin. I would probably not have picked this up on my own, but J., a colleague whom I respect very much, recommended it to me. It's the story of a teenage girl, Liz, who dies and is transported to an afterlife called Elsewhere. And Elsewhere is neither heaven nor hell, really much like our earth, except that people age backwards.

Anyhow, the first two-thirds weren't all that great. But the last third or so was fascinating. And I cried all through the last 20 or so pages. And this is weird because I almost never cry in books. OK, I admit that when I read The Hobbit, I cry every time when Thorin Oakenshield dies, but other than that, I really don't. And I do not know how to explain how or why this book affected me this way. But I sat on my couch with Guinn and Polly and cried and cried for all the loss that people experience. And I cried for all the people I miss. And I cried for the people in my own life that I've lost. For some reason, I never have proper tissue (you know, Kleenex or something) at home. I do in my office, but not at home. So I sat and cried and cried black eye-liner and blue eye-shadow into lengths and lengths of toilet paper, and I don't even know why. And I just kept crying. And I kept getting more and more toilet paper from the bathroom, as my make-up made this huge mess. And that's almost funny (I'm laughing now), the blue glittery eye-shadow on these handfulls of toilet paper. I guess that reading the book, finishing it anyway, made me thing about loss. I guess that, more than anything, maybe it has to do with thinking about how S.W., a friend of the family, had died recently. It really "got" to me, and then this novel was maybe too much. And, of course, there are all the losses, big and small, that I dare not even mention for fear that I'd never stop writing. I'm OK, really. I just needed to post my entry about Elsewhere. I suppose I'm glad that I read it. It makes me thankful just for life.

Typical Evening

Ok, for those of you who are interested, here's a typical evening at my house. Things to note (marking it as typical):

1. Drennan on the couch in a tee shirt and pajama bottoms.

2. Dogs on couch with Drennan. Polly is the one on the left; Guinnie is on the right.

3. Blankets on the couch.

4. A profusion of books on the tables.

So, I know that this really isn't the best picture of any of us. Looks like it didn't load very well. But I thought it would be fun anyway. I think that if you click on the pic, it will load a bit more clearly or something. This is mostly for my mom who always wants pictures of me (but not necessarily pics of the dogs, but you know, "love me, love my dogs" and all that!)

We're All Mad Here

I know that I should be trying to sleep, but I don't feel like sleeping. I feel like writing--is this a compulsion?

Anyway, last night, I talked to A.H. on the phone, and he said that he was reading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for a class he was teaching on Avant Garde something. So I've been thinking about Alice ever since.

I think that my favorite part of the story is when Alice meets the Cheshire Cat (don't you love the above graphic?), and he says, "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad. . .You must be [ mad]. . .or you wouldn't have come here." But of course the thing about Alice is that she isn't mad. It's Wonderland that's "mad." Alice is a fairly normal, healthy seven year old. It's the world around her that's "mad." And I so often feel that way. I wonder if I'm mad or, which really seems more likely, if the world that surrounds me is simply mad. I suppose that the Cheshire Cat would make the argument that simply because I am here, in a world that is apparently mad, that doesn't seem to make sense, that simply because I am here, I must be mad too. But I won't believe it. I know that Alice isn't mad, even when her surroundings are. And I have to believe that I'm not mad either.

Alice escapes Wonderland only when she sees things, the pack of cards particularly, for what they really are--nothing more and nothing less. Is that the way out of the apparent madness of this world? To simply learn, through growth and experience, to see things for what they are, no more and no less?

I will not believe that we are all mad simply because we happen to be "here," either in Wonderland or in the "real" world.

I'm Back on Track

Ok, so I'm back on track, for reals. No really. I'm on track. No more griping and worrying about what I didn't do each day. No more excuses. Starting today I'm back on track. And the new semester is starting and all, so it's a good time for it. So here's the deal: there are all these things I'm wanting to change and add to my routine and all that, so I'm trying to just take it slowly and add one "thing" a week. So this morning, I got up before work, and I read my little devotional thing, and I prayed. So I added that to my schedule--so you see: back on track.

I think that if I just keep writing and writing, I'll write myself to wherever it is I am meant to be.

And I'm back on track. And I will, I will read my Bible before bed.

Why I need a Personal Assistant

I don't really expect anyone to even read this, but I write just to maintain a grip on what I pretend is sanity. I decided today that what I need, like Carina's idea for a p.t. (she knows what I mean) is really a personal assistant. In fact, in all those BBC things I watch, they call them p.a.s, so it's perfect, really. Or a wife. Maybe what I need is a wife to take care of things for me. No, maybe it isn't a wife that I need. I don't need someone to cook and clean--I'm happy doing those things myself. But I need a p.a. to run photocopies, make and confirm appointments, attend meetings where he or she would take brief notes so I could skip out on the meetings. All I want is to be able to devote myself to my teaching and my research and my writing, and instead, I spend all my time putting paper in the photocopy machine and making cups of tea. Who knew that with my Ph.D. I'd end up spending so much time running photocopies, which inevitably leads to fighting with the photocopy machine, answering e-mails, and attending meetings. When I was very young, my aspiration was to be a secretary (although now we call them administrative assistants). Ironically, I went to graduate school only to become my own secretary! Oh, this is all just a silly rant, I know. But as my semester begins, I'm frustrated with the amount of time is taken away from activities that contribute to my teaching in a meaningful way. And all this could be solved by having a p.a.

STUDENTS!

I think it would be totally unethical (well, at least partly unethical) to write about it here, in a public forum, but my semester hasn't even started, and I'm already upset / annoyed / frustrated with my students.

Is this normal? Am I just a bad teacher?

Dolce Carina, help me!

Thankful for Work and It's COLD

So I came into work this morning! And although classes don't start until tomorrow, I have plenty of interesting stuff to do. And I am just so thankful to be back to work! I've been on break for about three weeks, and I am just simply a happier person when I have work to get up and look forward to each day. I know that I should be actually working, rather than sitting here blogging, but I wanted to express my excitement somehow.

On an unrelated note, it's cold, really cold. When I left my apartment, the thermometer in my car said it was 5 F, but by the time I got to work it said -4 F. That's cold. I don't know if I'm cut out for this.

Dad, if you are reading this (which I doubt) I'm wearing one of the ties that you gave me as a belt. It looks uber-chic. Aren't you proud to be a part of that????

D

Feeling alone, then connected: feeling unloved, then wanted AND other random observations

Ok, so I know that just a couple of hours ago, I threatened to go to bed. And I did. Well, at least I got in bed and read for a while, then slept for an hour, then read more. But that isn't really what I'm tring to say.

In a conversation that I had with C. the other day and in reading some things she'd written, I realized how quickly we can move from the extreme of feeling completely alienated from the entire world to feeling connected in a meaningful sort of way. Or we can move from thinking that love has somehow failed us to understanding that there are so many people to love us, if only we are open to them. And this suddenly seems like a very important revelation to me. Not only are we capable of being connected to the world and the human race because we have the ability to reach out to others, but also because others care for us too. So when I am having a really, really bad day, I can call my mom or whoever, and there really is someone who loves me. And feeling disconnected is maybe the real lie. Maybe if we all just asked a little more often when we wanted reassurance, we wouldn't feel so alone. That said, I'm going to make a renewed effort to reach out to others because I don't want anyone I care about to feel as isolated as I have at some points in my life.

But the bigger issue, really, and I grapple with this one, is that we are never alone because God is there. Yet, why is it that when we seem most often to need Him, He seems to be silent, far away? I accept that on these occasions, the fault lies with me, not God. Early on in his A Greif Observed, C.S. Lewis writes, "Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms [of grief]. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel his claims upon you as an interruption. . .But go to HIm when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence" (4). Of course, Lewis later explains that this isn't really how God works, but it's how things seem to feel sometimes. We pray for peace, for comfort, but sometimes God does not seem to send it.

The other thing I wanted to write about is that, as you can see from the above, I'm reading and thinking about Lewis again! That makes me happy. For me, one unwanted side-effect of my dissertation was that for a while I had no interest in reading or even thinking about C.S. Lewis. And now he's back, and it's strange, this feeling that maybe I know him, a man I have never met, better than most of the people I do know. I find myself thinking, far too often, what Lewis would say about a particular situation. But I've come full circle, I think. And I think that I can read C.S. Lewis again for all the reasons that I was drawn to him in the first place, for comfort. For a while, I'd lost that, and I think that I hated the process of wiriting my dissertation, in part, because I felt somehow as though I'd lost this relationship with a writer, a relationship that I'd treasured. But now, maybe it can be different and I can read Lewis again.

It's not that C.S. Lewis is technically the best writer I've ever read. And it's not that his works are so terribly profound, but I derive a sense of comfort from Lewis. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is dedicated to a child named Lucy (Owen Barfield's daughter, I think). And Lewis in the dedication says that someday when she's old enough to appreciate fairy stories again, she can take the book down from the shelf and read it. And when I read, I think I become that Lucy, and Lewis's works are doing for me all the things that Lewis and his friend Tolkien say that fairy stories should do. I see the world and my position in it in a new and delightful way. I'm so thankful to be able to return to that experience, that sort of reading. Maybe the lesson here is that I should not do more academic work on Lewis, that I should treasure that inexplicable something that he is to me and hide it away in my heart. Right now I am not sure.

A Wasted (?) Day

So today was it. I was going to plan out my semester, set goals, decide what I wanted and needed to read. Only all of that didn't happen, at least not to the extent that I'd hoped. I woke up with a sinus thing and took Benadryl, so I slept much of the day. And that's not so bad, I guess. And I just want to go to bed now, although it's only5:00ish.

But I did get some goals set, some lists made. I guess I am frustrated that there never seems to be the time to do all I want to do. How am I supposed to work into the day or even the week time to work and read and write and exercise and pray and cook and socialize and do volunteer work? Why can't I find the time for all the things I want to do? I guess this is my perfectionism coming out, isn't it? I always think that I should somehow be able to do more; I require of myself more than I would of other people. I want good enough to be good enough somehow. But that so rarely happens.

So here I sit, feeling like the day was mostly wasted because the weather was too icky to leave the house and because I didn't accomplish all I wanted to. I hate ending the day with this feeling. I want to learn to be satisfied, to say that I did what I could, given the circumstance and to be OK with that, but that is so hard for me. I want to focus on what I did accomplish. I thought about priorities and what I want to do daily and weekly with my time. (I tend to reassess these things often, but especially as a new semester starts.)

It's times like this that I want friends. I want to call A.H. knowing that he'll tell me that I am going enough. He'll remind me that while teaching full-time, I still managed to finish my dissertation. Or I want to call C. who will remind me that I'm like this academic-super-babe who keeps her work going, no matter the dissappointment. Maybe it's good that I simply remind myself of these friends who, I know, believe all these things of me, even when I don't believe them of myself.

Would it be too corny if tomorrow or the next day, I were to post my goals, etc? I always have this thing about wanting to articulate to someone else what it is I'm trying to accomplish, with the idea that if I verbalize it and that someone knows, I'll be more likely to follow through.

But I do follow through with so much. Why must I focus on my shortcomings? Why can't I say, hey, I finished a Ph.D. in the midst of all sorts of personal drama? Or hey, my lift may not be perfect, but every single day (well, most days) I make a difference in the world?

Oh well, don't worry. I'll get over it. Maybe I will call A.H. or C. or even my brother just to hear a friendly voice. That's all I really want. Maybe the bottom line is that I miss being near those people I love the most.

On NOT Reading What I "Should" Be Reading

There are all these things I think I should be reading (or rereading) because I think they would be emotionally or spiritually or psychologically nourishing for me, but I am just avoiding them. And I don't know why. I know that there's a part of me that somehow needs to reread C.S. Lewis's Till We Have Faces, his most brilliant piece of fiction, yet I'm going to log off and watch a Bette Davis movie instead. Why am I doing this? Why am I immersing myself in a Joyce Carol Oates novel that I no longer even enjoy instead of reading the thing that I know will speak to my soul? Is it simply that the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak? I don't think it's that simple. I think I'm avoiding the reading that could cause emotional discomfort, eventhough I believe that from such discomfort comes growth and renewal. Oh well, I think that I'll think about it tomorrow, maybe compile a list of books that I think will be good for me emotionally and spiritually right now. I'm open to suggestions, of course. Carina, I do have the new Didion, but I'm avoiding it for the same reasons. Yes, well tomorrow, I'll get my act together. I'll plan it all out. I'll list what it is that I think would benefit me to read. Shall I post my list here? If I do, then each of you will somehow, even if it's internally, hold me accountable, so there's a risk there.

In fact, one of my larger projects for tomorrow is to put together a schedule of sorts. With the new semester starting, I want to decide what's important for me to do each day or with regualrity--reading my Bible, yoga, meditation, eating healthy stuff--and then get going on Monday with it all. It's so hard. More tomorrow.

Love and Happiness,

Drennan

Winter in Vermont

So you all know that I'm really, really a Californian. And when I moved to Vermont, taking my "dream job" in a non-dream location at less-than-dream pay, no one really warned me about winter. Last year, I felt like I needed Winter Living for Dummies or The Idiot's Guide to Winter in New England. (Let me point this out: Vermont is New England; northern New York, only 20 miles away, is not) When I was mailed my contract, there was not a hand out explaining what winter was like and how people get through it. So I'm attempting to lay it all out for you, lest anyone of you step unsuspecting and ignorant into Vermont winters.

My first winter here, everything was new, even interesting. I thought of it as a challenge, and I was bound and determined that I wasn't going to let some abstract "winter" keep me from doing what I wanted to do and living the way I wanted to live. And honestly, I got through it. I survived. It was OK. This year, the thought of winter makes me feel rather run-down.

Sure, there are good things about it. There are days when it's beautiful, like living in a Currier and Ives print. I remember Thanksgiving day. It was snowing, and I drove from the town through the woods to pick up my friend Catherine for Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's home. And it was lovely. The snow was clean and fresh (this before it's been plowed to the side of the road five days straight and has turned a bleak grey); the river ran past snowy banks covered with trees. It's pretty. I grant that. And I enjoy the beauty of it. And I feel that surge of artistic impluse that makes me want to photograph all the beauty, and even the ugliness, that I see.

But then there are the day to day practicalities. For instance--dry skin. I've lived much of my life in climates with relatively dry summers. But dry skin was never something I thought about all that much. Now it's like this enemy to be fought daily. Burt's Bees products are my new best friends. Especially useful is the Burt's Bees Hand Salve--they call it "the defender." This is a great, great product. And so every night, after washing my face, I sit in front of the television slathering it on my poor, chapped, cracked hands. The Burt's Bees Lemon Cuticle Cream helps too. These products, though not expensive, are worth twice what they cost. (Ok, now I sound like an info-mercial for Burt's Bees, but it's a line of products that I truly believe in, especially for the Vermont winters.)

The other thing that no one mentioned, and this isn't all bad, is that the sun rises about 7:30 and sets about 4:30. I know--we are past the solstice now, so the days are getting longer. But let me tell you, the nights are long, long, long. Some days I like that. There's something cozy about it. I love the idea (and even the reality) of letting a pot of soup simmer in the kitchen while I read and write. There's something almost romantic about holing up inside and drinking tea and doing all the solitary, intellectual, or creative things that I do. But psychologically, there's also something difficult about it. I generally like to get up very early in the morning. 5:30 isn't too early for me. But sometimes I wake up, start my morning routine, and think, "It won't be light for hours yet."

OK, so the other thing is contending with the ice and snow itself. In the past three weeks I've slipped and fallen on the ice twice. It's almost funny, because I did not hurt myself, but I live in fear of slipping, trying to break my fall, and in the process, breaking my wrist. Both times I slipped, I really wasn't wearing appropriate shoes. So there's another thing--before leaving the house, one has to think, "Do these shoes provide the traction necessary to coping with walking around outside?" Even taking the dogs out can be treacherous. In fact, one of the times I fell, I was taking the dogs out. Imagine me: in my jammies and a coat, wearing Birkenstock clogs, two boston terriers pulling in opposite directions on their leashes, me falling on a patch of ice.

Then some days, one needs to add an extra 15 minutes or so to travel time. The car has to warm up (that's assuming it starts; when it's 15 below, it's iffy). And warming up the car isn't that big of a deal. But scraping the ice off the windshield is. Brushing off snow, even inches of it, is a breeze. But scraping, scraping, scraping ice and frost is a pain. It takes longer than you think, and it's more physical work that I'd have realized. So there I am, dressed in a nice skirt, because I'm on my way to work and I do sometimes make an attempt to look professional, wearing my snow boots. I'm scraping away, as my boots are filling up with snow. Naturally, I'm wearing one of those fun winter hats, but my ears are still cold. I'm still scraping away. I'm wearing these super-industrial strength gloves, because I fear things like frost bite. Still scraping away, while the car warms up. Finally finished scraping, I open the car door, only to realize that when I opened it earlier to let the car warm up, snow has fallen into the car. It's on the floor, on the seat. At this point, I'm cold, there's snow in my shoes, my nose is pink with cold, and I'm so annoyed that I simply sit in the snow that has fallen onto the seat.

No one explained all this to me. I know that I should focus on the positives, and there are certainly positivies. I love wearing scarves and hats, especially scarves and hats that match. I love the excuse for crocheting scarves! I'm even learning to knit. I love the culinary possibilities: soup is so much more interesting when it's about 5 degrees out. I make chili about once a month, and it somehow tastes better than it did in California. Snow, unlike rain, is nearly silent. I love lying in bed at night and watching the snowfall out my window. It's like existing inside a snow globe. But some days, especially at 7:00am when I'm on my way to work, I just want to cry. Having a garage now seems like this amazing luxury.

Maybe the best part of it is that once mid-May arrives, I'll appreciate spring more than I ever did in California.

P.G. Wodehouse and Joyce Carol Oates

The last couple days I have been thinking about this: Whatever I happen to be reading tends to seep into my thoughts throughout the day, even affecting how I happen to perceive the world. This makes sense to me. So two weeks ago, was I depressed because I was reading Carson McCullers? Or did McCullers appeal to be because I was depressed? I guess it's like the "chicken or the egg." I don't know what the answer is.

So now I'm trying to somehow balance out my reading. You know, something morbid or sad set off by something comic or heroic. So I'm alternatinge between P.G. Wodehouse's short stories (you know, of Jeeves and Wooster fame) and Oates's We Were the Mulvaneys.

Wodehouse is funny, very funny. And really, I'd said he writes exceptionally well. Something about the cadences of speech strike me as funny (satire, I guess) because the are authentic somehow. Plus, Wodehouse appeals to my interest in cultural Englishness, especially between the World Wars. I'll spare all of you my adademic rant about that. But it's a topic--English cultural identity in the 20th century--that interests me, as some of you know.

And then there's Oates. I read Expensive People, my first Oates novel a couple of weeks ago. Like the Mulvaneys, it is written in the first person, and in both novels Oates seems a master of the first-person narrative. And let's just be honest--I like the gothic elements. Oates, in a way very different from Wodehouse, is a prose stylist. She's amazing.

But aren't they an odd contrast? And why am I reading them together? And what does it say about my psychological state? I think as much as anything, it says that over my break, I am wanting to read literature different from what I read during the semester. As much as I love the material I teach, there's more to life than adolescent lit.

Drennan, Resident Literary Critic and Introvert

The Back Home Again Cafe (And Celebrating Time Off Work!)

Today, I woke up and decided that I'm going to take full advantage of my last few days off before the semester starts. So I'm not going to do any academic work until Monday. After a morning of doing more loads of laundry than I care to recount, I took myself out for lunch at The Back Home Again Cafe. One of the things I miss about California, as silly as it sounds, is all the good places to eat. In Rutland, there just aren't that many interesting places to dine, but the Back Home Again is so wonderful. They have a fairly small menu of salads, sandwiches, and the best soups in the world. They also have a cool juice / smoothie / espresso bar. It's sort of a health-food oriented place with lots of veggie and vegan options. It's run by this cult (and maybe that's an offensive term, but that's really what they are) that calls themselves the Twelve Tribes (see www.twelvetribes.org). But the place is just so wonderful. The ambiance is lovely. Today, I ordered a cup of Thai peanut soup with homemade bread, a Cajun fish sandwich, and hot cider. And I sat next to the fire place and enjoyed my lunch and read a book, and it was all just so lovely.

I guess I just get really excited about good food. At heart, I'm a "foodie;" I really am. Like I said, they have the best soups there, all made in house with organic ingredients and the like. The serve one called "Butternut Bevy" which is this great butternut squash soup filled with feta cheese. Does it get any better than that?

Anyway, as part of my commitment to really appreciate and enjoy the little things in life more fully, I just wanted to express my enthusiasm for The Back Home Again. Although I don't agree with their theology, they make lovely food!

I'm also thankful for the opportunity to be able to go out by myself and enjoy a leisurely lunch and sit by the fireplace and read a book. I realize that to the Maven Moms and the rest of the Stroller Brigade, this sounds like a regular vacation. And I appreciate what I do have in my life.

Cheers,

D

More Maverick Feminism--This is especially for Dolce Carina, Joybug, but also for all the strong women I love

Coincidentally, providentially, what's the word? In the past two days I've talked to Carina and Joybug on the phone, and something strikes me:

When we were younger, we thought that finding the right man would make us happy. We wanted to meet someone, date, fall in love, get married, and then things would be fine. We wouldn't be lonely; we'd be fulfilled. We wanted someone to wake up next to; we wanted someone to share our lives with. And all that is fine and good.

Yet what I realize now, maybe should have realized long ago, is that finding the right man, as wonderful as that may be, isn't the answer to all our problems, and we still need each other. And I find as I get older that I select my girlfriends more carefully than I used to and that I cherish and nourish my relationships with my girlfriends more than I used to.

We love men and we want men, and for better or worse, we marry men because they complement us. They are different from us, and maybe they fill in our weaknesses. But then, in a silly, hysterical way, we get annoyed when they don't respond to us, to our emotions, the way that women do. And this is why, I think, that for all of you, your husbands come first, but we still need and want each other. I know that whatever maddening or terrifying or frustrating things happens, I can call Carina, and she will react exactly the way I want her to. She sees things my way, and she doesn't ask me to calm down and be reasonable, and she doesn't try to solve the problem. She just shares my annoyance or indignation or whatever it is I feel. And I love her for that.

Let's face it: men give us something we need. Lately, when I feel really, really crappy, I call my dad (who is absolutely wonderful), and he reminds me that I'm not crappy and that my life isn't crappy, no matter how I happen to feel. When I've been emotionally involved with men, they do that rational, stabilizing thing for me. And that's great.

But sometimes, I have come to realize, that I just want my girlfriends. And I love each of you, and I value knowing that no matter how much time has passed since our last phone call, I can call Carina or Joybug or Cortney, and we simply pick up where we left off. And I value knowing that each of you knows how crazy I can be, but you love me anyway.

My goal is to work on nurturing my relationships with each of you.

So, here's to sisterhood! (Was that cheezy? Even if it was, you understand.)

The Maverick Feminist

Maverick Feminism

CAVEAT: This is my soap-box. And I'm writing this mostly to the Maven Moms (you know who you are.) But please, no one take offense.

I think of myself as sort of this maverick feminist. You see, I'm a feminist--I believe in equal pay for equal work--but I have so many conflicts with second and third wave feminism. I feel like I don't fit in, but maybe Dolce Carina and Calamity Jane will understand, maybe.

Ok, so as a young, professionally successful woman, I feel all this pressure. It's like second wave feminism, particularly, is telling me that I ought to have a great career and be super-mom all at the same time. And here's the thing--I can't do it. I don't know if anyone can do it. I look at what I'm putting into my career right now, and I know that to keep working the way that I am, to do what I need to do professionally, I cannot give children the attention they deserve. I recognize that I can't do both. I can't have this 55-hour a week academic career and take care of a baby. Something would have to give, and right now, I'm thankful that I don't have to make that choice between my career and my children. And I really believe that this is true for most of us. We can't take care of babies and give them what they need and still work and work and work the way we might have to to get ahead, especially in competitive careers. When I look at my friends, the ones I know are admirable mothers, I cannot imagine doing what they do every day. In fact, I think that all of you work harder than I do. I don't know. What I'm trying to say is that I feel all this pressure to have the perfect career and the perfect children, and I find it hard to believe that most women can do both of those things and do them well, especially with small children at home. But isn't this what second wave feminism ala The Feminine Mistique tells us we should be able to do? Isn't this what much of society expects, criticizing those who are "only" stay-at-home moms?

By the way, hats off to stay-at-home moms. I think that each of you is doing what's best for your children--you are making the choice in the best interest of those you love.

And then there's third wave, the movement that, generationally, I should be part of, right? Only what's up with "do me" feminism, anyway? I refuse to accept that the objectification of women is fine, if that's what women choose. I refuse to accept that prostitution is OK for society, provided that women choose that option.

Have I just misunderstood something?

So where do I fit? Call me the maverick feminist.

Blogging like a Maniac

So all I wanna do is blog, blog, blog. Well, blog and drink tea and wine and listen to Johnny Cash. Is there a psychological term for my condition? It's becoming like a neurosis; at least I'm not doing destructive things. I think this blog has taken the place of my journal. I don't know how I feel about that. On the one hand, it's a handy way for some of you (Carina, Joybug, etc.) to know what's going on with me, since I'm not as good about keeping in touch as I might be. At the same time, I write and write without any filter, so if anyone cares enough to read he or she has to wade through all the garbage. (NOTE: that's pronounced with the accent on the second syllable, sorta like it's French--gar-BAJE. I learned that from my Grandma Opal who totally rocks as a person.)

So here I am, again, only this time I am writing just to write, just to see what comes out. I really believe in writing as this process as a way to arrive at something. Sometimes I just don't know what the something is supposed to be. But I believe that if only I write enough, I'll figure it out. Isn't it weird how much implicit faith I have in the process of writing, in the written word, maybe because I think of it as a reflection of The Word. So here I sit writing and writing. And wouldn't Peter Elbow be impressed?

What's happening to me? I'm becoming one of those neurotic academics. Only the thing about it is that I'm totally comfortable with being a slightly neurotic academic. Did you know that I hold entire conversations with my dogs? Where will it end. Remind me to write soon about my idea for Guinevere to be the compation / side-kick character for the BBC's Inspector Morse. The only thing about it is Guinn wouldn't ever realize that she's the side-kick. She'd totally think she was the main character because that's the kind of pup Guinn is. For pics of Guinn, see the archives.

I love blogging, and I love being me!

On Tea and Johnny Cash

Lately, I've been drinking a lot, a lot of tea. Many of you know this about me. But it's like and obsession or something. Here's a great site to order from:

www.adagio.com

At the moment, I'm drinking a cup of this great green tea with toasted rice, which, of course, makes me long for sushi.

I'm also fixated on Johnny Cash. I know, I know I'm a poser now that that Walk the Line movie is popular (I loved it by the way), I jump on the band wagon. But it's not like that, not completely. I've always liked Johnny Cash, and the movie made me more interested. So I keep listening to the same CD over and over, at home, in the car, at work, alternately laughing and crying.

If I can have tea and Cash, I'll be happy.

One of my goals is and always has been to enjoy the little, day by day things (this is why I think having fun dinner plates is important). This, I believe, is a secret to daily satisfaction and happiness. And for now, tea and Cash are what I'm enjoying and appreciating moment by moment.

D

Lot 49--Maybe I'll skip the chapter-by-chapter (and Misc)

Ok, so I know I promised a chapter-by-chapter analysis of Lot 49, but I have rather lost interest, not in the novel, but in analyzing each chapter. That said, I finished the novel last night, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It's just so funny. Well, I think it's funny; apparently some people don't "get" it, and that's OK too.

At the same time, there's something sad about it. Oedipa, as she recognizes, sees the men she's come to depend on slipping away, one by one. Plus, all these people that she sees as connected to Tristero start to die. OK, so I just stated the obvious.

I think that I need to read things that are more life-affirming. And I'll do that once I'm back to teaching next week. Maybe I need to read things that are uplifting, rather than stuff that gets me mired down in post-modern uncertainty and feelings of helplessness. Maybe I need to spend more time on the couch with my dogs watching BBC murder mysteries. So much to do, and I have the time, but never know where to start.

To Carina, Andrew, JoybugsDoug, and all the rest, I love you!

Lot 49, Chapter 3

So this is the chapter where we get this weird Jacobean revenge tragedy. And it's really great. We also hear Mike Fillopian tell about the Peter Penguid society.

So with the Peter Penguid society, they are all into promoting celebrating some historical event that may or may not have happened. If it did happen, they are not sure who was actually involved and whether it took place off the coast of Carmel or Pismo Beach (I love references to the Central California coast!). So there's all this indeterminacy and no real way of getting at the historical truth, if there is any historical truth.

This, of course, immediately precedes Oedipa's first look at the Tristero symbol--the muted horn.

But really, The Courier's Tragedy, is a great send-up of Renaissance revenge tragedy because it includes sort of all the typical elements of a revenge tragedy, only in "spades." There's all kinds of torture and mutilation, and there's even incest. It's like all grusome Renaissance revenge tragedy combined. And of course, Trystero is mentioned as opposing the Thurn and Taxis families, the accepted mail carriers of the time.

Oedipa goes in search of the text for The Courier's Tragedy, hoping that finding the "authentic" text will clear things up for her. Oddly, there's no way of finding an authentic text. Again, Pynchon calls into question what literary scholars tend to take for granted: that there is a meaningful, authentic text, that a text means something.

I don't know--none of this is very scholarly. I just feel like it's something I want to write about right now.

I'm like Oedipa, I suppose, in search of the meaning of a text.

Lot 49, chapter 2: I left my heart in San Narciso

This is, for me, the funniest chapter in the book. I love that everyone is pretending to be something else, but there seems to be no substance underneath any of it. Metzger is a former child-actor, turned lawyer, who believes he becomes an actor before a jury. The Paranoids are clearly Southern Californians who are pretending to be British for the sake of their careers. Manny Di Presso is an actor, formerly a lawyer, who is playing Metzger, the actor-lawyer-actor in a pilot about Metzger's life. Where does it end? Everything is simulacra, pretend. But there's nothing real under it all.

Also, what I want to know is this. What is "San Narciso" really? I get that it's the Southern California suburbs. Is it really Orange County? That's what I want to know.

Narciso, I suppose, is a fictional city, pretending to be a real city, named after a saint who doesn't really exist. Except, it's clearly a pun on Narcissus / Narcissism, which is what saints are NOT supposed to be.

Could all of this happen anywhere but California?

The other thing that strikes me about this chapter is the movie that is running on the TV, the "Baby Igor"/Metzger movie. Apparently the reels are mixed up, so Oedipa isn't even getting the narrative in the correct order. And then it ends with the child and his dog drowning, when Oedipa expects a happy ending: "All those movies had happy endings," Oedipa says. What, here, is Pynchon implying about the possibility of narrative? Not only does the narrative defy and subvert Oedipa's expectations, but also it seems that meaningful narrative isn't even possible--the film isn't in the right order. . .or maybe it is. Oedipa never knows, and consequently, we never know.

Once, when I was maybe 10 years old, and we didn't have cable TV, the local independent station was showing the movie where Godzilla meets Mothra (a giant moth), and the reels were out of order. So, first we see the epic battle between the two; later we see native peoples calling up Mothra. Have you ever noticed that sometimes Godzilla is the good guy, sometimes the bad guy. I want to believe in a redemptive power of narrative, but it doesn't always work. We cannot, apparently, count on narratives to do what they are supposed to do. The world is less predictable than we might like, I suppose.