It began when I was six and wandered into a room where my father was up late, watching The Exorcist. I wanted a glass of water and he didn't realize I was there until I had seen more than I should have. Days later, when I asked my Sunday school teacher if the devil really could live inside of you she said "sometimes." Terrified, I slept in the hallway next to my parents' bedroom every night for two years. I never told anyone why I was so frightened and Mom and Dad--busy working and raising three children--were so tired they never asked. Years later, a Sunday school teacher myself and still sleepless, I finally confessed why I had been so frightened. My mother wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair. "Oh, Kel," she said. "We never knew."
When I was no older than six, I overheard my mother talking about the movie The Exorcist. I was raised in a Roman Catholic household, where the idea of demonic possession was more than fodder for a scary move. It was a real possibility, and you had no control over whether or not it happened to you.
The thought of your body being inhabited by a demon is terrifying at any age. At six, unable to even comprehend Satan or God (or for that matter, mental illness), the thought was enough to make me sleepless for well over a year.
I could fall asleep easily enough, thanks to a Strawberry Shortcake bedside lamp complete with nightlight. I'd curl up with my Rainbow Bright doll and fall fast asleep.
But every night I woke up in the early hours of the morning, long after my parents had fallen asleep convinced that the devil was in my room and was trying to find a way inside of me. I'd drag my pillow, blankets, and Rainbow Bright into the hallway and fall asleep between the bedrooms, in the comforting glow of the bathroom light. And every morning my mother would get up to make lunches and have a cup of coffee before waking us only to have to step over me in the hallway, sound asleep.
I never told my parents what scared me so badly.
***
Sleep disorders are part and parcel of my family. Everyone has, at some point, had issues sleeping. I don't think my father has slept more than five hours a night in my lifetime, and I'm convinced he has sleep apnea. If nothing else, he snores fit to beat the band. Mom talks in her sleep, as did my older brother when he was a child. I sleepwalk and have dreams I can't differentiate from reality upon waking (this happens at least once a week). My younger brother also had issues sleepwalking though much of his childhood. More frightening, he had night terrors (different from simple nightmares) from which he could not be woken. My mother would wake in the middle of the night to her youngest child shrieking and crying and couldn't do anything to help him. When she asked our pediatrician about it, he responded with typical Midwestern blandness.
"He'll grow out of them."
I've never asked if he has.
***
I pull off my eye mask and struggle to sit upright. The red clock on the microwave reads 1:43. For the past four nights I've woken at 1:43 to get up and wander around the apartment for an hour or two. I read, a little, but mainly I just pace until I'm tired enough to return to the recliner to which I'm banished while I wait for my broken ribs to heal.
The insomnia, I think, is preferable to the nightmares and relentless sleepwalking of the week before.
I think.
***
When describing my sleepwalking to friends, I keep the tone light. I tell them the funny sleepwalking episodes--the time I thought I was the grand empress of Prussia and was being attacked by an army of trebuchets. Or the time I thought my roommates had smeared canned tuna all over my room and spent forty minutes hunting high and low for a non-existent can of tuna. They make light of the sleepwalking, mainly because none of them have ever seen me do it.
I do not tell them that--even a few years ago--I would let myself out of the house or my dorm room and wake up outside, totally unaware of how long I had been there or what had persuaded me to rise in the middle of the night. I rarely remember the dreams that drive me
from my bed, and when I do, I wish I hadn't.
The nightmares are almost always they same. A post-apocolyptic vision of the world that would put Cormac McCarthy to shame. I almost always wake up with a shriek dying on my lips, drenched in sweat, with my heart racing. I've woken from these dreams tangled in bedclothes, huddled in a corner of the bedroom with my arms above my face, locked in the bathroom with
my back pressed against the door.
When I do finally wake up, it takes awhile for my heart to slow down. I turn on all the lights in the house, take the blankets from the bed, wrap myself up, and sit on the couch for long minutes.
I'm not so far from fears of demonic possession afterall.
***
When my bed is an option (as I hope it will be again very soon), my routine rarely changes. I am tucked in among the covers, computer, alarm clock, and any other light-emitting object banished to another room by 10:15. The sheets always smell like lavender, I always read until 10:30 or 10:45, and I always keep a glass of water next to the bed. I wear practical pajamas of the same style every night. After reading, I pull my eye mask over my eyes and curl around my body pillow hoping that, tonight at least, I'll be able to rest.
At fifteen, my friends and I liked to compile "The Soundtrack to My Life" lists and post them on our livejournals.
I am utterly embarrassed to admit both that I had a livejournal and that the following list belonged to me.
Dashboard Confessionals: Screaming Infidelities
Nirvana: Come As You Are.
Thursday: Standing on the Edge of Summer
Jimmy Eat World: Chase These Lights
The Alkaline Trio: Radio
No one could fake sadness quite like 15-year-old Kelly.
***
Lauren and I are driving home after stopping in to see two of my good friends in Minneapolis. They're in a relationship that just seems to work. I love going to see the two of them together because they compliment one another so well. I'm feeling more effusive than normal and am, in Betsy's words sharing my feelings.
"I'm just frustrated." I say, probably more than a little petulantly. "I don't second-guess myself. But Lauren, I'll be damned if I don't miss him. And it's not as though I'd ever want to date him again and it's not terribly bad. There are other men who make my stomach fluttery now. It's just...sometimes it takes me by surprise. When I'm writing a letter to someone, or come across a passage in a book I love and I think "Oh, he'd appreciate this." I'm brought up short by the fact that I don't get to have him in my life anymore."
"Oh, honey," she says. "I know."
***
If I were writing The Soundtrack to My Life for this part of my adulthood, I honestly don't know what I would put on it. My fifteen year old self would be struck dumb by that admission (thank God. Much to her chagrin, despite all of her Emo-kid clothes and time spent rereading The Catcher in the Rye she wasn't terribly interesting.) I've stopped thinking that way. Springsteen, I think, would make an appearance. So would Old Crow Medicine Show and probably some Patsy Cline.
There is one song that I can say, definitively, would make it onto the list. It's an Ella Fitzgerald/Louis Armstrong duet: "They Can't Take That Away From Me." It is perhaps one of the most bittersweet songs I've ever heard. Normally, jazz is my "I'm-falling-for-someone" music. I reserve heartbreak exclusively for Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, and a bottle of Maker's Mark, but something in the way Ella sings: "The way you hold your knife/the way we danced 'til three/the way you changed my life/no they can't take that away from me" catches my heart every time. It reminds me of the little things I always savor at the beginning and conclusion of any relationship.
When I fell for the last guy I dated (and fall I did, ridiculously hard and very, very fast) I fell for the most insane things. The way he fidgeted with the ring he wore. His dorky, contagious enthusiasm for woodcuts. The way he laughed at my exuberance over a new pair of rainboots. They were sweetly, unexpectedly endearing. They are things I miss.
I still can't look at Dore woodcut without feeling a tug.
***
At 15 I liked my sadness straight. Perhaps mixed with a little self-loathing or teenage angst. I prefer joy to sadness these days, the same way I prefer music where you don't need the liner notes to understand the lyrics. Sadness has lost its sharp tang, perhaps I lack the energy to mix in all that anger and frustration.
Perhaps I've just learned to savor the bittersweetness.
Shortly after my cycling accident last weekend, Andy was on the phone with Lauren trying to explain to her where the trail would cross the road and give her a little preparation for exactly how bad I looked.
"Give me the phone."
"What?"
"Give me the Goddamn telephone." Apparently there was something on my face (aside from the copious amounts of rapidly drying blood) that brooked no argument. I took the phone, gave Lauren precise directions and street names. When she asked "How are you?" I paused for a moment before answering.
"You know in The Moor when Russell gets dumped off of her horse onto the stone fence? Yeah, it's about like that except with more blood." She laughed and got off the line. I handed my cell phone back to Andy to supervise and he gave me a befuddled look. I hoped rather than believed that it was because of my calm command of the situation. I found out later it was because of the obscure pop culture reference I had made.
The reference was to a series of pulp-fiction detective novels Lauren and I both read. The series, written by the inimitable Laurie R. King, focuses on the escapades of Sherlock Holmes late in his career and his partner and wife Mary Russell.
I love the books for many, many reasons. My father has always been a fan of pulpy, detective/thriller novels and indulging in one always reminds me of him. I love King's writing style and her loyalty to the Conan Doyle canon. Most of all, I love (and want to be) Mary Russell. An academic theologian and a detective; a woman who can read half a dozen language and an admirable shot; a lover of beautiful things and someone who can rough it; capable of deep love and necessary distance, she represents so many of the ideals to which I hold myself.
Over the past week and a half I've been more or less a modified invalid. It hurts to get up and move around too terribly much, so I've been housebound. It's tedious, to say the least. Additionally, the amount of painkillers I've been on have left me either incredibly sleepy or unable to read a sentence and comprehend its meaning. I'm too restless to watch movies or television and I don't have a t.v. anyway. Thankfully, a few months ago Lauren's mom hooked me up with audio books of the Mary Russell series. Having a real, physical person read to me is perhaps the greatest pleasure in my life, with audio books as an almost-good-enough substitute. I can turn the Russell books on and fall into a familiar story. As I've read them so many times, it doesn't matter if I drift off for twenty minutes during one of the books. I can always find the thread of the plot upon waking. There's usually at least one good one-liner per book, and I've had one that I've been using on Murphy often over the past couple days whenever some admonition of hers proves to be right: "Lord, Holmes, isn't it dreary being right all the time?"
Late last week, propped up on my couch with a heating pad and a cup of coffee to hand, I was writing a letter and listening to a Russell book when a piece of King's writing nearly struck me dead. Russell, convalescing after being kidnapped and psychologically tortured (one of the charms of the detective genre is its flair for sensationalism) reflects on the difficulty of (what else?) vulnerability. She hates: "Holmes, who saw me in that despicable condition and burnt me with his compassion."
The hardest part about healing is not the pain in my ribs or the itchiness of the various scrapes and cuts as they heal. It is not even in the 2-5 weeks of waiting I have left before I am finally mended.
The hardest part is the burning, searing compassion in my friend's actions as they help me dress, move furniture, take out my garbage.
It is recognizing (however quietly) that I need them to do these things for me.
It is that despite the fact that I make my living thanking people for their generosity, I cannot even being to fathom how to say thank you now, when it matters most.
One of my favorite stories my Grandma tells (aside from the one about how the Prosen clan descended from cross-dressing gypsy chicken thieves) is the story of how she met, fell in love with, and became engaged to my Grandpa.
They met through her family and started dating when Grandma was teaching Latin and English in Milwaukee. Grandpa was working on the railroad with her uncle and he introduced the pair of them. They dated for a time, but Grandma never really felt like she could be sure about my Grandpa's feelings. He liked her, that much was apparent. But she was in her late 20s, ready to settle down and start a family. She felt like Grandpa was being wishy-washy.
At some point she became fed up with it. She had been offered a job in Sparta, WI--nearly 200 miles from Milwaukee. She accepted it. She told my Grandpa that she was still on the rail-line and if they were serious they would find a way to make it work. If they weren't she would find out sooner rather than later and he could go chase himself.
So she moved. Taught. Enjoyed herself. Grandpa came to visit on weekends. She saw him when she was in Milwaukee for holidays. After months of this, Grandpa came to her exasperated and said something like:
"Jane, either we're in love or we aren't. If we are, you have to marry me because I can't stand being without you any more."
They were engaged soon after.
What I love most about this story is it reminds me of Gram's stubbornness and independence. The former quality has been handed down to most (if not all) of the family. I like to think that the independent streak shows up in us as well.
I wonder what would have happened if Grandma hadn't decided to leave. If she would have stayed in Milwaukee. Certainly, she could have waited Grandpa out there. If she would have been a little less stubborn, a little less independent.
At anyrate, I'm glad she was. And I'm happy to have inherited both her stubbornness and independence.
Here's hoping they pay off.
***
Waiting
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one who never had any conditions, the one who waited you out. This is life's way of letting you know that you are lucky. -Eleanor Lerman "Starfish."
When I told you I just wanted to stay friends, you smiled and said that friendship was ok too. Then you threw yourself whole-heartedly into that friendship. I was a little less enthusiastic, but tried my best anyway. You'd look after my house while I was away. I brought you ginger ale and homemade soup when you were sick. We celebrated my birthday together, went to the movies, shared dinner and inside jokes. You knew my favorite red wine and I knew that heights make you tremble. It was until much later--you forgot your scarf on my kitchen table and I picked it up and it smelled like your perfume--that I realized what you had done.
Busily working my way through my summer reading. Since the end of April (the end of the semester, completion of comps, ergo the beginning of reading for leisure), I've managed to complete the following:
I always forget the sheer and unadulterated joy that comes from reading fiction. It is, perhaps, a little escapist of me to spend so much of my time with my head in a book, but it is a pleasure I am unwilling to forgo. I am currently wrapping up Paul Auster's Invisible, a rather peculiar little book, and am considering rereading The Great Gatsby for the sheer gorgeousness of the text. I'd love suggestions for other summer reading--I prefer fiction to non-fiction and LOVE short stories, but am willing to make an exception for a really finely wrought bit of memoir or book of essays.
The theme for this week on my other blog was "Fate." This is a version of the poem I wrote for it originally, but it wasn't coming together in time. I posted a different poem over at Glints and just finished this one today.
***
Anniversary
My daughter calls one night. I am smoking in the kitchen.
Her father puts in a new garden.
Before I can thank her for the card she sent
for our 30th anniversary,
she tells me, breathlessly, I think I'm falling in love.
She doesn't remember--she has called before saying the same thing.
I do not remind her. I listen. Ask the questions she wants me to ask.
I smoke. Make approving noises.
Say it's a nice time of year to be young and in love.
I roll my eyes at her father when he comes in to wash his hands.
He takes the phone, lights a cigarette of his own,
shakes his head at her exuberance.
He says he's happy for her, keeping the doubt from his voice.
We both know it will be enough to tell her, in a few weeks,
that love is never easy. And if it ever seems too simple,
By "I love This American Life" I mean I have a list of favorite episodes I can listen to over and over again. I make TAL references in daily conversation. I give to their pledge drive every time they ask for money. I've considered the "Radio By Mail" subscription to the program so that I can listen to the shows forever at my own leisure. I often tell friends which episodes they should listen to and why I think they'd love them. I have been known to tell whole stories from the show in an attempt to get people to try it. My dream is to one day be a contributor (although, I don't write particularly good non-fiction or short stories, so I'm not sure how that's going to work).
A friend asked recently for a list of my favorite episodes. Believe it or not, this is the short list. If you have a roadtrip ahead of you, it's worth downloading them (.99 a piece) and taking them along.
I have a few strengths about which I am not bashful. I have an excellent sense of humor, I can be rather quick-witted and personal, I put a lot of time and effort into academic success.
But that of which I am most proud (as friends or relatively regular readers of this blog can tell you) is that I am a pretty damn good cook. I have afternoons off this summer and wish that I were in a wealthy enough area that someone would hire me on as a personal chef for the next few months.
The outline: I work 3-7 Monday-Saturday, with occasional Sunday hours should an event come up. For the price of groceries plus a nominal wage I would do all the prep work, cook dinner, and do the dishes, all in the comfort of your own home. Weekly menus will be provided every Sunday, with a 6 hour window for vetos and substitution requests. You have delicious leftovers to take to work all week and a stress-less summer full of good food and wine. I get to spend my afternoons cooking, making a little money, experimenting with new recipes, and get to add personal chef to my resume.
A girl can dream, right?
That said, I might actually try to get an apprenticeship with an artisan baker this summer.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
We come from people who brought us up to believe life is a struggle, and if you should ever be really happy, be patient: this will pass.
-Garrison Keillor
I am unreasonably euphoric these days.
This of course means that something is probably about to go disastrously wrong.
In the words of the poet: my cup is full/let it spill.
***
Things for which I am Unendingly Grateful
Flowering trees. New recipes. Work. Curly hair. My London sweater. Michelle. My family. Lemon Berry Cake. Coffee dates. Brunch dates. Dates. Lauren and her risotto. The feel of a new book. My bed. Blue skies and puffy clouds. Study carrel 13. The New York Times. Pretentious Sundays. Puns in Church. The Eucharist. Summer. Daffodils, pasque flowers, lilies, and roses. Anticipation. The MIA. Friends in Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Portland, Seattle, NYC. Hugs. The Metropolitan Diaries. Tolkien. Lewis. Johnson. Bonhoeffer. Mozart. Mendelssohn's Octet for Strings. Letters. Mary Oliver. Aunt Margaret's Rings. The smell of cut grass. Apples. Theology. Poetry. More than I can name.
(I realize this is, in fact, a bluegill. Non-copyrighted, good photos of largemouth were difficult to find, so I went for the other Ashegon lake stand-by, the bluegill.)
For the past couple weeks I've been working on poems about my family. They're posted at the joint adventure in blogging in which Lauren and I have been engaged. I want my folks particularly to know how much I love them and that it's difficult not to be a bigger part of their daily lives. I am so often torn between my desire to be an independent adult and the knowledge that I am missing so much of the stuff that makes a family a family: broken hearts and weddings, births and funerals, Sunday dinners and Dad's softball games. I know Mom & Dad don't always understand the weird decisions I make about working in non-profit or getting degrees that don't seem very practical, but they've always supported me through my many and varied flip-outs.
I don't know how to tell them how much that means to me. The best I could do was write a couple poems and hope that they might understand. Early this week, I sent both of them copies of the poems. The one I wrote about Pa is about fishing at the cabin and how much I miss it.
A quick note about my parents and poetry. My mom once told me that her ideas about poetry and my poems were very different. This was, I think, her tactful way of telling me that she didn't like anything I wrote aside from the fact that I wrote it.
At anyrate, I sent the poems on to Mom & Pa. My father has recently acquired an email address and normally uses it to send me weird forwards. When I logged on to my email a day after I sent them, I received the following email from Pa.
Love the poem and look forward to doing that in real life. FYI They're largemouth bass and I'm too lazy to dig for worms anymore.
This is, without a doubt, one of the best compliments I've ever received on one of my poems. Pa reminded me that despite my desire to keep acquiring degrees, save the world, or spend all of my spare time trying to wrangle words into submissions, there's still a part of me that my family loves and understands without question.
From the pulpit a grim gray man
wrapped in a starched white gown
extols the virtues of patience and obedience
moderation and self denial. I should be listening.
But after a sentence or two I've stopped,
choosing instead to look out the side window
into a garden filled with red tulips and purple hyacinths.
I'd like to be there, barefoot in the young grass,
elbow deep in the earth weeding, watering, helping things to grow.
Perhaps a nap under the blossoming crab apples,
the breeze riffling the hem of my dress.
But now, it is time to rise from the hard black pews,
recite the Creed, sing the AgnusDei, receive the bread
until, blessed and free we are sent forth into the spring sunshine and wind.
A few weeks ago, Lauren blogged on how theologians tend to have mission statements or stories that define their theology. Indeed, these mission statements define the way in which we participate in the world. Sometimes we choose these statements or stories. More often, I've found, these statements choose us.
I have a few, some from scripture (John 21:7), but I find that I am more frequently influenced by the work of poets I admire. Mary Oliver's first line to Thirst is often on my lips when I wake in the morning. If I'm in an unusually good mood, it may be the final line to Why I Wake Early.
Practice Resurrection. This is the final exhortation of Wendell Berry in his fine poem Manifesto: The Mad Farmer's Liberation Front. It is also among the lines of poetry that runs through my head most often. It is, one might say, my theological, personal, and poetic manifesto. During the last weeks, spring has been creeping into central Minnesota, and I have been preparing with increasing anxiety for my comprehensive exams. I'm proud to say that I passed both the written and oral exams last week with honors.
This has been one of the most emotionally intense periods of my life. This spring I was rejected from Ph.D. programs, read twenty-six systematic theology and scripture books, took a mind-bending written exam, and theologized off-the-cuff with the three of the smartest men I have met in my life for an hour.
Out of necessity, I spent many hours locked in my study carrel in Alcuin library. I also neglected many of the things I love to do (cooking, eating, spending time with roommates, reading fiction, doodling, visiting friends in Minneapolis, and heading to art museums.) While I am pleased with the outcome of those many hours in the library, I do not think it is an exaggeration to say that I boxed up some parts of my life and put them on the shelf. Last Thursday, I took that box down, dusted it off, and took a look at what was inside.
I went to the Minneapolis Institute of Art with my Western Christian Art class. We were supposed to be off looking at sacred art, but truth be told, I spent most of my time looking at the Chihuly chandelier they had hanging in the atrium. I love Chihuly's glasswork, and this one was magnificent. It reminded me of all of the interests that have been in that box on the shelf for the past four months. The chance to again read novels, see friends, spend half an hour examining a sculpture without worrying that I should be studying was such a gift. Moreso it was a reminder of the line from the Wendell Berry poem--an opportunity to practice a small resurrection in my own life.
Undoubtedly some of you have seen the Tournament of Novels over at First Things. Now that I'm post-comps (for good or ill, after 5:30 today) I've decided to do my own knock off of the tournament.
Introducing the 2010 Tournament of Desserts.
I've cut down from the 64 contenders (simply because I don't have the recipes) to the Sweet 16. The dessert that wins will be debuted on May 15th, with the first two runners-up following some time this summer.
Please leave votes in the comments.
Round One Contenders
Bracket One: Lemon Buttermilk Cake with Berries vs. Vanilla Creme Brulee with Raspberries
Bracket Two: Rhubarb Pie vs. Lemon Cake with Lavender Cream
Bracket Three: Strawberry Tart with Port Glaze vs. Frozen Lemon Gingersnap Pie
I know that some of you have seen the Tournament of Novels over at first things.
In a few days, for good or ill, I will have completed my comprehensive exams. In two weeks, I will be finished with my spring semester. This means that I am going to have a great deal of time on my hands over the summer.
Drawing on the Tournament of Novels, I've decided to launch an (abberviated) tournament of desserts. Rather than start with 64 dessert recipes, I've decided just to start from the Sweet Sixteen (appropriately enough).
I have a stack of recipes on which I depend for dinner parties. People keep coming back for dinner, so they must be pretty good. I can make an elegant looking dessert without a whole lot of hassle. I have an amazing apron and can cook in high heels and pearls. There's usually table wine in the house and I have assigned playlists for when there are guests over. If it's an impromptu gathering I can whip together something incredible out of the ingredients in my house with a minimum amount of fuss. I have a collection of stories which can get a laugh out of the most boring group of people (some off-color, some for high-class company). I'm a great conversationalist and work hard to make everyone at the dinner table feel included.
The one aspect of my hostessing abilities in which I am not entirely comfortable is my ability to mix a really fantastic cocktail. I'm not talking about a vodka soda (too simple) or a bloody mary (at which I excel), but an actual cocktail. Consequently, this summer my goal is to teach myself to make my three favorite cocktails perfectly.
Cocktail number one:
The Classic Martini
I love martinis. As anyone who has seen me at a Friday happy hour can probably attest, I love martinis a little too much. It's classy. It's classic. It's totally fucking delicious. I'm also a bit of a snob when it comes to my martinis. A martini is always and forever made with gin. If it's made with anything else, you're drinking some other kind of glorified frou-frou cocktail. However, despite my love for martinis, I've never been satisfied with my ability to mix them well. Something always seems a little lacking in the ones I make at home--perhaps it's nothing more than the adorable bartenders who seem to mix the drinks at the establishments I frequent, the pleasure of the Mediterranean plate at Zeno's, or the the lack of dashing young men to take me out for my drinks. I will find out.
Cocktail number two:
The Brandy Old-Fashioned
I'm from Wisconsin, the state where Korbel exports 1/3 of all its brandy production. My father's favorite drink (when it's not a PBR) is a brandy and diet Coke. When I came to Minnesota I discovered quickly that no one drinks the stuff. I mean, at all. There's a fair amount of other alcohol consumption, but the brandy section at the liquor store is woefully inadequate. Additionally, no one (aside from my friend Betsy) can mix a decent old-fashioned. It's time these folks learned that watching Brett Farve blow an NFC championship game by throwing an interception is far easier when you have one (or three) of these in your system.
Cocktail number three:
The Mint Julep
Much like the hooker with a heart of gold, my mint juleps are a little rough around the edges. One of the greatest things about a well-made mint julep is you ability to drink the whole refreshing, sweet, strong glass on a hot evening without realizing it. It's a smooth, beautiful drink that makes me want to sit on a patio in a sundress and hat, fanning myself and talking about how the construction worker down the street is givin' me the vapors.
Those are the summer cocktails. I'm hoping that I'll be able to find some folks to come over, sample, and give me some notes.
As I'm staring down the barrel of comprehensive exams (5 weeks, 10 books to read, 6 topic questions to write) one of the things that's inspiring me to keep going is the knowledge that once I get to the month of May, I will have a month off of reading systematic theology. If I'm accepted to the Th.M. program at Saint John's, I'll have a summer course in Fundamental Moral Theology, but that won't start until June. I have some papers to finish up, and should do a little work for my thesis defense in August, but given the intensity of this semester I've decided that it's necessary for my sanity to take a little break from thinking about dogma, doctrine, and thinking about God. I'll finish my papers and then spend some much needed time on the beach.
I miss reading fiction. The last new novel I managed to finish was most recent in the Mary Russell series The Language of Bees in August(?). That's eight months without completing a new piece of fiction or memoir or something other than systematic/scriptural theology. For a life-long English major, this is perhaps one of the most frustrating aspects of being a graduate student. As a coping mechanism for the stress of this semester, I've started devising my summer reading list. I decided that I wanted it to be nothing except fiction and short stories, and because I'm painfully disconnected from modern fiction, I was going to read only books published in 2009 (deep breath, Lauren. This is personal reading, not book club reading). Because I am a colossal snob and read both Slate and the New York Times book reviews obsessively, my list comes from their Best of 2009 picks. If you read something (fiction or short stories--I could be persuaded for memoir, but it'll take a little nudging) that you think I should pick up, please let me know.
Until then, the start of my summer reading list (any of the following would make a lovely graduation gift):
As a recovering English major I'm often expected to be a kind of pseudo-expert when it comes to grammar. Those who are actually familiar with my writing (or who have read this blog's title) know that I'm not. I hate grammar. I do. I hate it. I can't tell you what a gerund is, can't diagram a sentence, am an awful speller, and have never used a semi-colon correctly.
That said, there's another recovering-English-major trait (or, I suppose, lover of the English language trait) to which I subscribe in its entirety. I make long lists of words I love and hate.
The lists below are by no means exhaustive. Simply a way to get started blogging (one of the hated words) again.
Words I Love:
(Or: Words I Love and Never Have an Opportunity to Use)
My very dear friend Lauren and I are in the process of putting together a joint blog. We're taking turns proposing a theme for the week. She writes a non-fiction response to it, I write a poem, and we'll post them together.
However, while we're thinking up a title/designing said blog, we're posting separately. You can find her excellent reflection on this week's theme "Thirst" here. Mine is below, based on the 4th Chapter of John's Gospel.
Thirst
John 4:6-7
He surprised me when we met
by asking only for a drink of water.
There were no catcalls, no surreptitious touches.
He did not laugh with his friends while I pretended not to hear.
He just wanted a drink of water.
As I drew it, he told me that I looked tired--
that it must have been difficult to be always fetching and carrying.
Before I knew it, I was telling him everything.
From the rudeness of men to the cruelty of women.
When I was afraid I might begin to cry, he touched my hand.
I left a box of things at Susan's for you. I accidentally packed them when I left last Saturday. A few things I took out of spite and now want to return because I feel childish. Little things, mostly. The picture of you, backpacking, your hair tucked away under a bandanna. My key and this month's rent. Your sister's glasses, the ones she left the night I drank too much wine and told you I was in love with you. Your Rufus Wainwright CDs and season five of The Wire. I watched the series finale and it was every bit as good as you said. Some socks and underwear and that favorite tie of yours. The one that matches my polka dot party dress. The dress I wore when we slow danced at Mark's wedding and everyone asked each other if we were next. Some bigger things. Your grandmother's ring, the one you told me keep, your credit card, and the dog's leash and dogfood. Hopefully enough to last until I find something new. Oh, and that Graham Greene novel you always wanted me to read. I finally did. It was all right.
Something about my Patsy Cline's Greatest Hits made you laugh when you pulled it off my shelf. Do people still listen to this? I told you yes, over a glass of bourbon and a broken heart. I don’t remember what we did after that conversation—whether it was make dinner or have a glass of wine or if we just went up to bed—but you did tell me that you didn’t believe in broken hearts or bourbon. Come to think about it, you never really came around to liking Patsy either.
What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?--High Fidelity
About a month ago, my friend John was browsing through my itunes playlist Top 25 Songs.
“Holy crap.” He said.
“Wait! I can explain the Beyonce! I listen to her while I’m stretching before a run.”
“No. It’s not that. Although, I call bullshit on that. Do you realize you’ve played the song “Crown” by Mason Jennings 300 times?”
“Uhhh. Yup.”
I am, at 25, becoming something of a connoisseur of break-up songs. I think heartbreak and misery are just functions of being in your 20s, much like financial and personal instability and the inability to live in the same apartment for more than a year. They’re part of a person’s first tentative steps into adulthood and understanding yourself and what you want out of your life and your partnerships. Thankfully, while I’m a self-described Romantic I do have a strong dose of Prosen family pragmatism. I don’t believe in destiny, fate, soul-mates, or “the One” for a variety of reasons (which is a whole different post). This, I think, has made dealing with the whole dating/breaking up aspect of my adult life exponentially easier. I never have second thoughts about someone being the one person out of billions for whom I was meant. If we clicked really well, it was just a testament of chemistry, and I’ll have equal or greater chemistry and attraction to another person soon enough.
I don’t want to come across as heartless here. Breakups, regardless of belief in destiny or fate are still wrenching and leave me feeling discombobulated and wondering if a future full of cats and stacks of old newspapers isn’t really that far off. Like many people, I have my list of go-to’s when a break-up happens. The girlfriend who’s always your wingwoman, the bottle of bourbon on hand for drowning your sorrows, the dress that makes you feel like a million dollars, the guy who reminds you that you’re stunning, brilliant, and hilarious. More importantly, however, I have the go-to list of songs that inevitably make me feel better.
5. Crown: Mason Jennnings
What can I say, really? It has 300+ plays on my itunes and has been the soundtrack to one of the more complicated and difficult relationships of my adult life. Mason understands love and falling into and out of it better than many other songwriters I’ve heard.
Favorite lyric(s): It just kind of happened or so she said/she was drinkin’ and lonely/you know now the rest/he was nothing/he was happenstance/she says she loves me still/wants a second chance
4. Jolene: Ray LaMontagne
This is my favorite feeling-sorry-for-myself breakup song. Something about Ray’s voice gets me every time. The song is so wistful and self-loathing it pretty much sums up the gigantic puddle of self-pity/self-destructive behaviors that I seem to indulge in every freakin' time a relationship ends.
Favorite lyric: I still don’t know what love means
3. Don’t Think Twice: Bob Dylan
I’m not talking about the later, wistful “I wish my love wouldn’t have left me" recording. In one of the earlier recordings, Bob is straight up pissed and rightfully so—it’s as though he’s talking to every person who’s ever strung you along in some kind of emotional purgatory. I love it because it gets at the self-absorption of so many of us in our failed relationships. Thank you, Bob.
Favorite lyric(s): Well, I ain’t sayin’ you treated me unkind/you could have done better but I don’t mind/you just kinda wasted my precious time/but don’t think twice, it’s all right
2. For Emma: Bon Iver
Lyrically sparse and absolutely beautiful, this may be one of my all-time favorite songs. It may be because I knew the story behind For Emma, Forever Ago before I actually heard the album, but this song is so loaded with emotion, it’s incredible. Additionally, I just think it’s pretty.
Favorite lyric(s) Go find another lover/to bring-a/to string a-long/for all your lies/you’re still very loveable.
1.Leavin’ On Your Mind: Patsy Cline
Every time I’ve had an actual broken heart, the remedy for the first night freshly single is a glass of bourbon and my Patsy Cline greatest hits album. I grew up on Patsy, and I still think that she conveys the conflicting feelings you seem to inevitably have for your ex better than anyone. This is one of my two favorite Patsy songs (the other is “She’s Got You”). I love this one particularly because I feel like everyone’s been in the situation of knowing someone’s getting ready to leave you but lacking the guts to end it before they can hurt you. Oh man. It doesn’t get much better than Patsy.
Favorite lyric: Hurt me now, get it over/I may learn to love again.
Honorable mention:
She’s Got You: Patsy Cline
For all of the aforementioned great Patsy characteristics, except this song is about looking at all of your ex’s stuff and realizing that he’s happy without his favorite things as long as he has his new girl.
Favorites: I’ve got your picture and it’s signed with love/ just like it used to be/the only thing different, the only thing new/I’ve got your picture/she’s got you
