31 January

I just finished Kate Chopin's The Awakening. I am very frustrated.

Why is it that every literary "awakening" ends in death? All of them! Brilliant Plath, awakening, ends at the oven-- tired of carrying the "burden of... dead selves", waiting to live once again; Edna Pontillier throwing herself into the sea after discovering love, "a bird with a broken wing... beating the air above, reeling, fluttering, circling disabled down, down to the water", having proven herself rather than strong ("The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings"), a weakling, "bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth."

But must every awakening end in death? Why on earth, in that case, would one want to be awakened? Mme. Pontillier's awakening was, in orthodox terms, foolish; her journey of self-actualization led her into simple narcissism, farther from others and into herself. She was awakened to: a beautiful "maybe", an impossible love which flung open the passage to a newfangled version of herself. Her love for Robert was selfish, really; she admits this openly ("Despondency had come upon her there in the wakeful night, and had never lifted. There was no one thing in the world that she desired. There was no human being whom she wanted near her except Robert; and she even realized that the day would come when he, too, and the thought of him would melt out of her existance, leaving her alone.")

Really she only awakened to herself (but this self was fragmented, blurry, confused; she did not know it very well, and upon discovering it to be as flawed as her former self [if, at least, more interestingly so], she abandons hope not only in humanity, but eventually, herself. I suppose when one reaches the state of utter self-dependence, the discovery of one's own flawfulness would be irremediably shattering.)

I am likewise fragmented, blurry, confused, yes; I love, and perhaps it is equally selfish as the love Chopin portrays. I am not, however, subject to mad self-destruction. (This is, perhaps, because I have a future: if infinitely mired in present circumstance, I might consider the same. There are always avenues of subjective newness, when one fears stagnation; when one is unhappy, there is always some form of escape.)

I suppose what I am grappling with is this: would it not be better to live blissfully, unawakened, like bland contented Mme. Ratignolle? That is, I am sure, a terribly unpoetic statement, but there it is. The romantic, poetic concept would be that it is always preferable to be awakened, to live in a tumult of love and agony and feeling, even to the point of death; that death in an ecstasy of emotion is preferable to a slow swaddled life without self-actualization. I suppose that to Mlle. Average, here, the blind contentedness born of innocence (or, depending on your philosophic prejudices, ignorance) is preferable to languoring in bleak oppressive wisdom.

To be quite frank, and blasphemously unpoetic, is happiness not preferable to wisdom? To quote Douglas Adams (ha!), "I'd far rather be happy than right any day." To bring faith into it, ma foi, we are certainly instructed to pursue wisdom at all costs. Proverbs 4:6-8 says, "Do not forsake wisdom, and she will protect you; love her, and she will watch over you. Wisdom is supreme, therefore get wisdom. Though it cost all you have, get understanding. Esteem her and she will exalt you; embrace her, and she will honor you." (Naturally, Mme. Pontellier's "wisdom" is not parallel with Biblical wisdom; the wisdom of Solomon would never recommend that vast deviation from both her husband and mankind, especially for self-love, self-discovery, and the pretense of love that Mme. shares with Robert.)

Even if one acquieces that blind contentment is preferable to self-actualization, however, a problem arises: this thought process in itself implies at least some of self-actualization is in place, and once one has left this contented state of blindness, once one has ripped open the chip-bag of self-actualization, one loses the ability to return to it. Do I propose running about among the innocent with a black veil, shouting, "No! you do not want to see"--? Naturally, no. It is proverbially best to be wizened; the difficulty lies in procuring the correct sort of wisdom, and building a Self from this base. I propose a turning-about of the tables: rather than seeking self-actualization and from that garnering wisdom, begin with wisdom, and from that a Self will grow.

Once enlightened (if choosing the non-Christian vein of self-actualization), one is left with a subjective future of self-development. One is left to the stripping away of layers and layers of Otherness, and, particularly, of others. The refining of Self apart from all other entities depends largely on a premise of unmolested solitude. (Mme. Pontellier discovers this in relation to her husband, and later her children. Initially it is her love for Robert that spurs this, but eventually, it is simple self-acquaintance, independence, and the accompanying mistrust of the rest of mankind: "Instinct had prompted her to put away her husband's bounty in casting off her allegiance... Conditions would some way adjust themselves, she felt; but whatever came, she had resolved never again to belong to another than herself.") Life, then, is either hurtling towards some sort of point of isolated self-actualization (assuming one can fully know oneself) or an unconsummated journey, an endless stripping of influence, fanning out in endless subjectivity. I hasten to choose the latter, shrinking from the possiblity of knowing myself fully; the former sounds frighteningly like Existentialism, which has always seemed rather infinite and hopeless to me.

(I do beleive that Chopin thinks so as well... Even in the midst of Mme.'s passion, she consistantly picks illusion over reality, narrating: "...And she found it good to dream and to be alone and unmolested. There were days when she was unhappy, she did not know why-- when it did not seem worth while to be glad or sorry, to be alive or dead, when life appared to her like a grotesque pandemonium and humanity like worms struggling blindly towards inevitable annihilation.")

Life, I suppose, is all. Perhaps it is best to leave the philosophy here on the table, and live; for there is snow on the ground, and coffee cake in the oven. Watch out, though, Chopin, I'm not through with you yet....

Next on the Menu: East of Eden by John Steinbeck (apparently also profoundly depressing. Heavens. I am growing weary of great geniuses of sorrow; I am ready for the world to produce more geniuses of love.)

28 January

funny how
.........................................

Narrative (24 January)

Holidays, among other things, never fail to remind me why small towns depress me. It is the terrible abundance of tennis shoes, of muss-headed mothers, of bark-- and of bark colored brick, and of brick colored sky-- one horrible mound of nondescriptness, emotional anarchy. Brown. As if color and feeling had proven too awkward a burden to live under.

Uncle D sells pottery and is very wealthy; he wears corduroy shirts that smell vaguely of clay dust and mint. Small towns remind me of what I ought to have aspired to, and, worse, of what I could still mend and become: arriving my slick-waxed blue Nissan into a small town, an Adamsville, stopping and living and dying there, wearing Carhartt rubber boots and drawling about pottery sales.

Small towns remind me of how instead I am flushed and rather fidgety in my white JCrew cardigan, dead broke, fragile and rather classically pretty, my main gig being how I am conversant in French and Shakespearean English. Uncle D speaks in dollars, and in dirt.

B, my cousin, eyes me as though I am a corn sample. On the back porch when the stars prick out white against the clearness, he looks at me squarely and says, "I mean, I'd offer you a joint, but, you know..."

Yesterday my boyfriend and I decided to define ourselves by doing everything that came to mind and reporting our adventures to the other. I report:

First, I tripped over The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton. Then, since I was already on the floor, I read through the highlighted ones (Anne Sexton has some fantastic sex poems. This is ironic because a) I am seventeen and a virgin and know absolutely nothing about sex; and b) 'sex' takes up half of her surname.) and translated the first page of The Bell Jar into Italian. Next I pirouetted down the hallway, which is surprisingly difficult to accomplish in toe socks. Mum gave me some walnuts. I kissed her on the top of her head and ate them, even though I hate walnuts. The End.

"I love you," he said. "That's all."

(When one is loved, the world becomes a mammal: all births are live; more light than muscle flickers under skin. And if the world is a mammal, it is necessarily a lighter sort of brother; and we, necessarily, great stompers of any facet of it which our Love does not inhabit. We idiomize love, and all is either in or out of love, and one wishes to become Love, and to stomp on the black throats of every other song: to become transparent, a carrier of it, as if it were a cancer or a chromosome; mute white angel with unsullied feet leaving puddles of water behind her.)

Last night I dreamed about Adamsville. A black-headed angel stood comfortably on the side of the interstate, red staff in hand, mud heavying the edge of its white robe. It did not light my tongue with fire, preparation for prophecy; it shook my hand smartly and said, "Yes. I will take twenty-five of the red Terra Cotta. How far do you ship? Oklahoma?"

Missed (4 pt love poem, attempt #2)

Odd how "-ed" (innocucous of phrases!)
Can change so much.
It is Plath in the kitchen, mouthing
"I lived, once" into a dishtowel--

It is Echo in the forest, following,
Never pursued--
It is also the white-rimmed Atlantic,
Rounded, De-Edged.

It is the black-eyed guitarist shaking
His head, saying, "You cannot fathom how much
He cared for you,"
As if eternity had driven off a cliff,

Lips clamped, determined to drown,
And I stitched to the hem of her coat.

A Brief Soliloquy on Infatuation (4-pt love poem attempt #1)

When one is loved, the world
Becomes a mammal:
All births are live; more
Light than muscle flickers

Under skin.
One finds that one is mammal
Striding on a lighter sort of brother,
In and Out of Love, and Of Love,

And one wishes to become Love:
To become transparent, a carrier of it,

As if it were a cancer or a chromosome;
Mute white angel with unsullied feet,
Leaving puddles of water behind her.

16 January

I have arrived at the point where I love your skin more than I love other people's opinions.


New Fantastic Music:
Ben Kweller (Ben Kweller)
Contra (Vampire Weekend)
Coeur de Pirate (Coeur de Pirate)

life is good again.
dassss all i got, folks.

Adventures in Translation

French music is infinitely more lovely and poetic than American. (Perhaps this is because French music concentrates on love, while Americans like lust. Just a thought.) Carla Bruni is probably the most familiar of les femmes Francaises (besides being Carla Bruni, she is also First-Lady Mrs. Sarkozy), and Quelqu'un m'a dit is, according to iTunes, her most famous song. (The 500 Days of Summer soundtrack popularized it, I believe.) Anyway, my quite non-Francophone friend Jon asked me to translate it; armed with a Fr-Eng dictionary and four years of French classes, I commenced. These are some of my favorite song lyrics. Naturally, it rhymes in French while in English, not-so-much. My favorite French couplet from this song is: On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous; qu'il ne nous donne rien, et qu'il nous promet tout. (That would be the first two lines of the second verse.) Anyway, voila:

It is said that our lives are not worth much;
They pass in an instant like fading roses.
It is said that Time is a bastard, making a coat of our sorrows.
Yet, somebody told me that you still loved me.
So, would that be possible?

It is said that fate mocks us,
That it gives us nothing and promises us everything.
When happiness seems at hand, we reach out and find that we are fools.
Yet, somebody told me that you still loved me.
So, would that be possible?

So, who is this that tells me that you still love me?
I can no longer remember; it was late at night.
I can still hear the voice, but have forgotten the face:
"He loves you, it's secret, don't tell him I told you."
Yes! Somebody told me that you still loved me.
Would that be possible?

3 January

School starts tomorrow.
(How brilliantly effusive and cohesive I am today!)

Most Notable Christmas Presents:
(in no particular order)

from Emmett, a "Reading is Sexy!" shirt from American Apparel;
from Kathell, a set of those refrigerator magnets (which Mum and I have not ceased to play with; the favorite phrase so far being "I need cake, perhaps men. Crap.");
from my Great Aunt Vera Cate, a pink bottle of Mace;
from Matt, a Regina Spektor poster (!!!);

from Christ my Savior, a terribly transforming "Valley" experience which has and shall continue to refine my heart by fire; also on that front, the birth and death of God to save my soul.
(I think that might just be the best one so far.)

Top Three Things I've Learned This Year:

1. Life is so much easier and more fulfilling when one loses one's sense of entitlement;
2. The Ideal Scenario is for one to love indiscriminately, and err on the side of trust; and
3. Love, by nature, is neither selfish nor manipulative. It is gentle and merciful and yielding, and it wants to give. (If it is selfish and manipulative it is not love; if it is gentle and merciful and yielding, it is most likely love.)

"Writing about music is like dancing about architecture; it's a really stupid thing to want to do."
-Elvis Costello
(The origins of this quote are highly disputed. Lynne Truss quotes it in Eats, Shoots & Leaves. Why do I like this quote so much?)

Currently reading: Sailing Alone Accross the Room by Billy Collins, and a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets. I have a vague premonition that things are about to get messy.

10 Favorite Albums of This Decade

1. Far by Regina Spektor
2. Begin to Hope by Regina Spektor
3. Vampire Weekend by Vampire Weekend
4. Say I Am You by The Weepies
5. Speak For Yourself by Imogen Heap
6. Re-Arrange Us by Mates of State
7. Give Up by The Postal Service
8. The Reminder by Feist
9. Boys and Girls by Ingrid Michaelson
10. Illinoise by Sufjan Stevens

Honorable Mentions:

Ellipse (Imogen Heap); Paper Television (the Blow); Plans (Death Cab for Cutie); Emotionalism (the Avett Brothers); Taller Children (Elizabeth & the Catapult); The Reminder (Feist); Girls & Boys (Ingrid Michaelson); Fearless (Taylor Swift); Marina & the Diamonds; Every Second Counts (Plain White T's); Volume One (She & Him); A Good Day (Priscilla Ahn) More Adventurous (Rilo Kiley); The Crane Wife (the Decemberists)

Winter Descriptive Writing Project

In the backseat of my father's sedan I stretch the backs of my ankles against the leather passenger seat. If I lean my forehead against it, I can smell the floral crispness of Mother's hairspray sticking to the back of the headrest. She twists around a white bangled arm to pat my hair, black and dully warm with the filtered sunlight of the backseat window. Outside the sky is pockless blue, gelatinating in idignant clumps against the deadness of the bald November forests. With my head cocked against the headrest, I see the outline of my father in the driver's seat-- I search the red-checked rim of his cuffs for a stain, for a patch of rubbed-out fabric, and in vain-- and behind his black head, out the window, a vast expanse of grey. 700 unread pages of anna Karenina lay in my lap, ignorant that the world outside has died.

Alyssa Duck (1:22 PM): It's grey and grey and grey outside here today.
Kathleen Sims (1:22 PM): Must be symbolic or something.
Alyssa Duck (1:23 PM): Yeah.

Rows of worn depleted cornfields pass, stripped brown of green and yellow. Clots of blot-red bushes curl domestically against the edge of the field, as if something on this empty road were blooming, like a forehead-ring of red teethmarks against the dead brown stalks. At the edge of the highway a fox sniffs interestedly at a dead rabbit. The cornfields look exactly as if some sweet celestial mother had oiled them and attacked them with a comb.

I lean my head against the wind-chilled windowpane and let it bang along with the potholes in the road. The backs of my ankles are sore from underuse; my eyelids close around a vague and empty blankness--

In the fuzzy post-rain haze of a 3 o'clock sun I sit on the edge of the sidewalk, shoulders scrunched into the folds of my neck, and flex my ankles against the thin crease where the concrete meets the asphalt. If I lean my neck far enough to the left I can smell Matt's clean musky crispness; he is warm and soft-smelling with the particular comforting meekness of men's deoderant. The sky is split thinly into folds of grey and blue; splotches of indignant blue patch the sky like cerulean eczema on the bones of an old hand. Coolidge Park sprawls incongruously cheerful and blue against the punctured wreck and tangle of spit-dried winter trees. My thoughts begin flitting laboriously, like an injured bird, between concrete/musk/philosophy; to be riduculous, I imagine some ancient existentialist philosopher in love, alarmed for a moment at his own animal physicality, quoting J.S Foer's Brod: Nothing (was) more than it actually was. Everything was just a thing, completely mired in its thingness. I watch the clouds shift in the infinite grey, and come to the conclusion that I am quite all right with thingness; that, in the end, eternity is and can only be captured in the contact of skin or in bee stings; that neither Emerson nor Brod was seated physically, in no vague proverbial sense, on a park curb beside a lank-limbed boy with aster-colored eyes, who smelled of musk and young affection.

I squeeze my eyelids closed until white and purple stars appear and Handel begins ringing in my ears; when I open my eyes, the highway still slides greyly and languidly by, inch by fractured brown inch, uninterestingly enough; 4:30 gathers its defenses, the sky is grey, and it is still not beautiful.