Horrified… and yet… proud…
I wrote this paper tonight. I thought of the idea this morning. It took me four hours. I wrote this basically off the top of my head. This is why I’m a nerd and need a classroom:
Psychoanalytic Literature: Dostoevsky to Woolf
Between the late 19th and early 20th centuries, mental disorders and diseases began to play a more detailed and significant role in world literature, as information and understanding about the role of these subjects became known. Perhaps the most commonly recognized example of this shift is seen in the work of psychologists such as Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, who advanced this understanding through the development of the psychoanalytic theory. Despite this “household” recognition of psychoanalysis and human behavioral study, this school of psychologists had literary sources upon which to draw, and long after their initial clinical exploration, authors continue to examine the essence of the human psyche through the development of fictional characters.
In 1865, Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment” was published, and is today recognized as the one of the world greatest works of literature, and the first “psychological” novel, revealing the murderer Raskolnikov not through the clues he leaves behind, but through the killer’s inner monologue. Freud himself recognized Dostoyevsky’s influence into the field of psychoanalysis. “Dostoevsky’s great works, considered individually or holistically, though fictional, established him as one of the forefathers of psychoanalysis, and a predecessor to Freud. Indeed Freud himself acknowledged that “the poets” discovered the unconscious before he did, stating further in a letter to Stefan Zweig, “Dostoevsky ‘cannot be understood without psychoanalysis- i.e., he isn’t in need of it because he illustrates it himself in every character and every sentence.’” (Cantrell) Nearly sixty years later, Virginia Woolf would approach the character Septimus Warren Smith using many of the same methods as Dostoevsky, influenced by the Russian author, as Freud had been. She said of the author in her essay The Russian Point of View, “There is something proud and superb in the attack of such a mind and such a body upon life. Nothing seems to escape him. Nothing glances off him unrecorded… And what his infallible eye reports of a cough or a trick of the hands his infallible brain refers to something hidden in the character, so that we know his people, not only by the way they love and their views on politics and the immortality of the soul, but also by the way they sneeze and choke.” Despite Woolf’s appreciation of these talents, and the similarity of her method, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov and Septimus Warren Smith embody two very different facets of mental disorder and its effects upon the individual, born of the experiences of their creator.
No doubt influenced by Dostoevsky’s experience with the penal system in Russia following his incarceration in a Siberian labor camp in 1946- a result of his involvement with political liberalism - the author first wrote “Crime and Punishment” as a serialized novel published in The Russian Messenger, later compiled into its familiar novelized form. It follows the descent into madness and criminality of Rodion Raskolnikov, a Petersburg student plagued by the debilitating effects of paranoid schizophrenia. Raskolnikov, laboring under delusions and hallucinations, murders a pawnbroker and her half sister with an axe. The novel focuses on Raskolnikov’s formulation and execution of the crime, his subsequent self-involvement in the ensuing criminal investigation, and his eventual confession, incarceration, and redemption. Although rife with themes from a modern-day detective novel, the primary focus of Crime and Punishment is the mental and emotional state of the main character, and the moral and religious implications of his actions.
In 1925, Virginia Woolf’s publication of Mrs. Dalloway delved with equal aplomb and tenacity into the intricacies of emotional and mental health. Woolf’s novel introduced of Septimus Warren Smith, a young soldier irrevocably damaged by the debilitating effects of mental disorders, a subject largely influenced by Woolf’s own battle with mental illness over much of her adult life. Woolf suffered bouts of depression and mood disorders, which degenerated into more serious symptoms such as auditory hallucinations in the last years of her life. Fearing this degeneration of her mental state and its effect on her marriage and writing, Woolf committed suicide by drowning in 1941. Similar to the manifestations of Raskolnikov’s illness, Septimus Warren Smith exhibited bouts of prolonged agitation, hallucination, and delusional thinking. The similarity ends there however, as the results of their respective illness both on the world and on their own lives, differ considerably.
The first major area in which the two characters differ is the mitigating circumstances of their illness. Septimus’ catalyst is clearly defined in the novel: A soldier in the First World War, Septimus saw firsthand the atrocities of the battlefield, chiefly in the death of his friend, Evans. Returning from the war, shell-shocked and despondent, an already deteriorating Septimus marries Lucrezia while living in Italy after the war, and returns with her to England. Even in this early stage of what would now be called Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD,) Septimus lacks emotional response.
“Even taste (Rezia liked ices, chocolates, sweet things) had no relish to him. He put down his cup on the little marble table. He looked at people outside; happy they seemed, collecting in the middle of the street, shouting, laughing, squabbling over nothing. But he could not taste, he could not feel. In the tea-shop among the tables and the chattering waiters the appalling fear came over him-he could not feel. He could reason; he could read, Dante for example, quite easily (”Septimus, do put down your book,” said Rezia, gently shutting the Inferno), he could add up his bill; his brain was perfect; it must be the fault of the world then-that he could not feel.”
This lack of feeling is not present in most of Raskolnikov’s private thoughts. To the contrary, his emotions reel from the most tender feelings of affection (for Sonia, for his old schoolmate Razumihin,) to rages and moments devoid of care.
In Raskolnikov, there seems no clearly defined catalyst for mental breakdown, but for the extreme poverty that plagues him. Before the opening of Crime and Punishment, Raskolnikov had been a student at the university, but because of money and social issues had dropped out, becoming so poor as to have little with which to feed or clothe himself. While not so pronounced a reason as Septimus’ war experience, the onset of schizophrenia is often precipitated by some change or stress in the life of the sufferer. Whatever the cause, Raskolnikov’s deterioration into homicidal thoughts is present from the first chapters of the novel, and in fact the character spends much of the opening of the book preparing to murder the pawnbroker Alyona Ivanovna, visiting the woman on the pretext of pawning some items as a way to examine the scene of the future crime.
Where Septimus presents a more acute public face of “madness” (talking to oneself, insisting upon the presence of unseen figures and unheard voices) Raskolnikov manages to remain high-functioning throughout most of the story - a fact of course out of step with the functioning ability of most paranoid schizophrenics. Where Septimus rambles and collects his thoughts in incoherent missives (either self-written or dictated to his wife,) Raskolnikov collects his thoughts and formally presents his belief of the “Ubermensch” theory to the world, through a publication submitted while he was still a student. Although their level of sophistication in collecting these thoughts varies, it is in this instance where the two characters find their greatest commonality. The idea that they are of a class of human above the common man is a theme that features heavily in the delusions of both men. Raskolnikov meditates heavily upon the idea of the Napoleonic figure, the individual who once in a generation moves beyond moral and legal bounds to achieve greatness (Interestingly, Woolf visits this idea in To the Lighthouse, with Mr. Ramsay’s meditation upon “reaching Zed.” Although this refers to intellectual, not moral superiority, the emphasis upon its rarity is the same.) Increasingly, Raskolnikov comes to believe that he is one of these “great men,” and in fact ultimately admits that his murder of the old woman was an act to “prove” that he could progress beyond morality and law, believing “if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood.”
Septimus, on the other hand, presents a much less formal characterization of his human superiority. He seems to be guided by the apparition of Evans, continually concerned with “saving” others (most likely an idea ingrained in him during his service.) Here there ”Now for his writings; how the dead sing behind rhododendron bushes; odes to Time; conversations with Shakespeare; Evans, Evans, Evans-his messages from the dead; do not cut down trees; tell the Prime Minister. Universal love: the meaning of the world. Burn them!’ he cried.” Here the reader gains a full perspective on the level of incoherence present in Septimus’ fractured reality. Where Raskolnikov is calculating, cunning and works to maintain control over his reeling emotional state, Septimus gives completely over to the delusion. His assertions of superiority come to nothing, however, as his actions, as explored in the following, are primarily self-concerned.
Perhaps the largest divide between the two characters is in their ultimate fate. Where Dostoevsky’s aim in creating the figure of Raskolnikov is to move a figure from a state of moral decrepitude to one of redemption, Woolf uses Septimus (semi-autobiographically) as a symbol of emotional separation, lonliness, and the pervasive influence of mental illness upon the sufferer. Raskolnikov ultimately is liberated from the darkness of his mental illness by his involvement with, and eventual confession to Sonia Arkadeyevna, the prostitute who took pity on the murderer, loving him and even following him to Siberia to wait out his penal servitude. Here Raskolnikov is not saved by medicine (for medicine had not yet begun to explore the causes and remedies for organic mental defect) but by absolution. He becomes aware of the nature of his crimes, and through confession and penitence, is redeemed to a new life after his servitude. Themes of redemption played heavily into Dostoevsky’s work, chiefly due to his return to religious orthodoxy during his own servitude.
The fate of Septimus Warren Smith is not so bright. Haunted by apparitions, terrified and abused by the doctors who attempt to “cure” him with the slapdash practice of medicine, Septimus ultimately succumbs to the weight of his illness, leaping from a window to escape the perceived assault by the “enemy” doctors. Septimus’ fate is largely a commentary on Woolf’s own views of mental illness, and her struggle against them. Woolf, like Septimus, would eventually succumb to the weight of her mental disorders. It is perhaps for this reason that she is able to produce a character, while so obviously disturbed, is also pitiable, walking the fine line between our aversion to madness, and our deeper fears of living under such a state. We do not think less of Septimus for his end, and in fact understand the weight of such a burden through his inner monologue. Absolution for Septimus comes not from those around him, but form the reader.
To look at these two characters is to appreciate how, in the hands of a master craftsman, the same tools and materials can produce vastly different results. The influence upon Woolf’s work is clear, and her understanding of the human soul on terms with Dostoevsky.
Sources:
1. Cantrell, Dan. “Dostoevsky and Psychology”. Accessed June 27, 2009. http://community.middlebury.edu/~beyer/courses/previous/ru351/studentpapers/Psychology.shtml
2. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. (1866) “Crime and Punishment” Translated by Constance Garnett (2004) Collector’s Library. London.
3. Woolf, Virginia. (1925) “Mrs. Dalloway”. Harcourt. London.
The Breakdown (But not the one you’re thinking of…)
So… yesterday I did a trial run of this little housework resolution of mine, to see how much I could actually get done in an hour. Would there be a visible dent in my crud factor? Would that geiger counter we bought stop shrieking in horror every time we pointed it at the fridge? Most importantly, would the cats notice any change in household quality?
I decided to do a trial run. I did as much as I could in an hour, without breaking my ass, but while trying to successfully multitask. I started by bagging up some laundry (three loads to be exact) and taking it down to throw in.
Ten minutes* to do this. Okay. That’s a dent.
I scooped the kitty boxes, and fed them. Five minutes, if you count the minute shooshing them out of my way to get to the food dishes in the midst of their gastronomical excitement. I emptied the trash, kitchen and bathroom, and ran it downstairs to the bins. Ten minutes more. Minor successes abound! I decided while killing time waiting to flip the clothes, I’d empty the dishwasher.
Thirty minutes later, dishes are put away, sink is emptied and cleaned down, countertops are wiped down, a few stray objects are put away, and the glass cooktop (a housewife’s arch-rival if ever there was one) is scrubbed and looking less like the black blob that ate Tasha Yar in Star Trek: TNG.
I flipped the clothes into the dryer, went to get dinner with Eddie, and then folded and trundled the clothes back upstairs. This took another 30 minutes total. I also took a few minutes to wrestle errant ribbon away from both cats, and spent a few minutes hunting for other ribbons they hadn’t yet eaten. I booked five minutes for this. Say what you will about this.
I set out to spend sixty minutes cleaning my house, and ended up with half-again the progress. Better yet, it actually LOOKED like I had done something! I had a clean kitchen! Clean enough that Eddie made sure it stayed that way when he baked cookies tonight.
If this is what my most recent New Year’s Resolution challenge will yield? Bring on the excellence. Sorry Former President Zipperhead… you’re going to have to find your fifty quid somewhere else.
* It is important to note that I only count time spent doing laundry when I am ACTUALLY HANDLING the laundry. Gathering, sorting, throwing in, flipping into the dryer, folding, putting away… None of this “throw it in the wash and dry and call it an hour and a half” bullshit. That’s Peg Bundy math.
So This is the New Year…
First of all, let’s just get this out of the way…
OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT YOU POSTED ON YOUR BLOG WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD AND WE WERE JUST WAITIN FER UR DOMAIN REGGY TO EXPIRE SO WE COULD ST33L UR AWSUM URL!!1One
Okay, with that done. Hello! I know. It’s been like a month or more. It’s been busy around here lately. But that’s a story for another post (or three.. since the Bloggening just started back up again and I’m already four posts behind. Damn you, Ian and Tom.)
Now for a word from your sponsors…
I am a slob. Actually, saying I’m a slob is like saying the second term of the Bush Administration was kind of a lame party. I cringe at the thought of pop-ins, I am comfortable with a level of “artistic disarray” that would make Martha Stewart loose her bowels into her neatly ironed chinos. I am… Godzillaslob. The best evidence of this came this Thanksgiving. We cleaned the house neat as a pin in anticipation of dinner at our house. The place was stunningly clean. Unaccustomed to such conditions, our two cats wandered the house crying mournfully and refusing to cuddle with us until the place regained its usual patina of hapless clutter.
To be fair, I’m a busy girl. Anyone who knows me personally will agree that I take on WAY too much. This year, in addition to work, I took three classes, wrote the first 50,000 words of a novel, and joined a Christmas choir group. Holy. Crap. How much laundry got done in this house? I bet you can guess.
At the beginning of this year, I made the New Year’s resolution to read/listen to a book a week for the entire year. It was more than I’d read in years, but I thought it was an attainable goal, so I blogged about it and started a Goodreads account to chart my progress. I’m happy to report that as of today, not only have I completed my fifty-two book spree, I’m actually working on books fifty-three and fifty-four at the moment.
With my first “NYR Challenge” out of the way, I thought perhaps my love of self-competition could cure my vile hatred of housework. Maybe, if I came up with a NEW New Year’s Resolution Challenge TM I would keep my house clean, my clothes laundered, and my sanity intact.
And here you have it: The “Enemy of the (Feminist) State” Homemaker New Year’s Challenge.
I hereby challenge myself in this public forum to commit to one hour of housework… every day…. FOR A YEAR.
Oh. Shit.
Here are the rules, both to keep me honest, and in case any of my six or seven dedicated readers would like to follow along at home:
1. The victim… um.. competitor… uhh… Sexy Domestic Goddess (YES! That works) will commit to one hour of housekeeping per day for the period January 1, 2010 to December 31, 2010.
2. The SDG will record said housework (basic description of housekeeping prowess and time) on a blog, Facebook, Twitter or other place fit for public scrutiny.
3. If an hour of housework is missed, it must be made up later within the same week. *Yes, this will occasionally mean seven miserable hours of solid housekeeping on a Sunday, as punishment for six previous days of doing f#%k all and stoning out on Warcraft.
4. Hours may be banked within the same week. If the SDG does two hours of work on Monday, she may sit on her ass without shame on Tuesday. Bon Bons optional.
5. Banked hours will disappear on the Monday after a given week. Put those Bon Bons to good use, girls.
Here is the part that will basically ensure that I keep my house as neat as a pin for the next 365 days.
6. If the SDG fails in this attempt to bring domestic order to her humble abode, the sting of failure will be felt in the form of $50 of her hard earned cash going to a cause she f#%king despises.
My anti-charity? As if it would be anything else…
The George W. Bush Presidential Center
As if that alone were not sufficient reason to keep to this resolution, here’s a little added incentive culled from the donation page of the site:
“With your tax-deductible contribution, you will take your place as one of the first to stand with President and Mrs. Bush as a Charter Member of the George W. Bush Presidential Center. When you contribute $50 or more, your name will also be included in the Freedom Registry on permanent display at the Center.”
Think of it: My name, forever scrawled in the pages of an unholy guestbook, alongside names of people who actually LIKE that guy.
I don’t think anyone reading this wants to see me fail this thing now.
The Time Traveler’s Scribe
This past Thursday night, Eddie and I had the pleasure of attending a lecture by Audrey Niffenegger, visual artist and author of the best-selling novel The Time Traveler’s Wife. Ms. Niffenegger gave a reading from her new book, Her Fearful Symmetry, opened the floor to questions and answers from the audience of about 100, and followed the lecture with a book signing for those in attendance.
We settled into our seats with five minutes to spare, excited to hear what such a celebrated author has to say about her life and work, and to have the chance to meet her in person. We were not disappointed.
Audrey Niffenegger took the stage quietly and immediately thanked us all for attending, relating her “standard-issue anxiety” of showing up to a lecture and finding that no one has chosen to attend. This drew a chuckle from the crowd of devotees, and broke the ice nicely before she treated all to a chapter of Symmetry titled “The History of her Ghost,” in which Elspeth Noblin becomes accustomed to her non-corporeal form as she involuntarily haunts her former London flat after a death from cancer at age 44. I found it an interesting juxtaposition of theme that in Time Traveler, Niffenegger’s main character is forever disappearing involuntarily, where in Symmetry, Elspeth is held fast to her familiar surroundings by unknown spiritual barriers.
The question and answer session proved to be interesting not just for the answers Ms. Niffenegger provided, but the content of the questions themselves. The very first question actually had nothing to do with writing. A gentleman in the front row asked, “Do you lucid dream?” Ms. Niffenegger confessed that she had never experienced lucid dreaming, but felt that it was an interesting phenomenon. This warmed up the rest of the crowd of course, and hands started appearing from the audience. Throughout the Q&A, the author was a gracious host, drawing out the more tentative hands raised in the audience, devoting and genuine attention to each question and questioner, and candidly talking about her writing process. “How do you structure the time you write?” asked one participant, earning a self-deprecating giggle from Niffenegger. “Well, there are people who do it properly, like a job,” She said, “I am not one of them.” “I’m a bit of a chaos kitty.” the author admitted, saying she has no set time to write, and sometimes finds it hard to get started, but (much like other authors who have admitted similar habits) says “Once I’m in my chair I’m okay.” She did say one helpful structure for productivity was having a writing partner. They meet in a café once a week to write and eat until they physically can’t eat any more.
Given the very recent release of the movie adaptation of The Time Traveler’s Wife, a common subject of interest was the author’s views on the outcome of the adaptation. I had read before the lecture that Audrey Niffenegger refrained from seeing the completed film version, from a desire to “let go” of the experience of seeing her work interpreted by others, in a different medium. As she explained, while writing a novel is in some ways “writing instructions” for the story, she had a different version in her head than any filmmaker could ever produce. Many echoed their approval of this sentiment. Henry and Clare are different for everyone, based on the theatre of one’s mind.
What fascinated me most about the evening was how incredibly normal Audrey Niffenegger was. A gracious host, funny and candid, making sure that any raised hand got a chance at the microphone, so to speak. I got the same feeling from my recent lecture with Dr. Drew Pinskey, but remember Dr. Drew has made a career and name for himself listening to people ask increasingly bizarre questions. Niffenegger was an artist and teacher long before she ever became a national name. Seemingly, she is unchanged and largely unaffected by this massive shift in her fan base.
After the show, the author took the time to sign a few copies of her recently released Her Fearful Symmetry, and again I was struck by the fact that she took a few minutes to get to know each person who came through the line, genuinely delighted to meet this group of strangers who have followed her rise so closely. Picking up on a trick I learned at Dr. Drew, I had my name on a slip of paper bookmarking the page. This makes it easy to get from one person to the next.
“Oh, I like your name!” she commented. “I’ve developed an eye for unusual spellings. That’s unique… very elegant.” I joked that it was my blessing and my curse, because while I get a lot of compliments on it, no one can ever spell it. I was a little starstruck, and forgot to tell her she could borrow it the next time she was looking for a placeholder. You never know, my obscure spelling might yet make it into a future New York Times Best Seller (hell, even if I don’t make it on the list as an author, finding it somewhere between a binding would be equally as gratifying.)
Ed made the gutsier move of bringing his Kindle to be signed. “I don’t know how you feel about these things, but would you sign my Kindle?” Ms. Niffenegger got such a kick out of this! “Hmm… Now how is this going to work? She pondered, looking at her ball-point pen. Ed was ready with a Sharpie “I came prepared!” He laughed. She was thrilled to be the inaugural ink on the device. “I’m the first! I’ll sign it right under the Amazon.” And there you have it. Audrey Niffenegger endorses the use of electronic media. Her assistant seemed equally amused by the unusual signing. I can’t really say how the Barnes and Noble rep felt about it, he stayed out of the way. I’m sure he felt better that husband and wife had at least one dead tree between them. I panicked at the last moment and bought it in hardcover, remembering the failing wi-fi service of Ed’s Kindle. To hell with sending a device loaded with signatures back to Amazon for replacement, never to be seen again. We have a back-up in paper and ink!
The whole evening was really nice, and it was fascinating as always to see how a writer so advanced in their career discusses the art form, as well as handles the influx of adoration. I hope that if fortune knocks on my door some day, I’ll be as thoroughly cool about it as Audrey Niffenegger.
My Signed Copy of "Her Fearful Symmetry"
Pimsleur? More like Pimpsleur…
I’ve been watching InuYasha lately. Actually, I’ve been watching a lot of InuYasha. More than I should be comfortable fessing up to in a public forum. Because of this recent revival in my love of Japanese animation, I’ve also experienced a revival in my love of - and desire to learn - the Japanese language.
I know, I know. Stupid gaijin wants to learn to speak funny, hectic language way beyond her ken. Then she’ll go to Japan and get VERY politely laughed at by every native speaker she comes into contact with. I don’t care. When have I ever cared about looking stupid? I have my Ph.D. in looking stupid.
I decided to use my drive to work to listen to the Pimsleur Intro to Conversation Japanese CD course. It’s only 4 hours long, so it’s more an appetizer of the language basics just to get you interested (and let’s face it, to get you to buy more shit.) Apparently, the Pimsleur course is the one used by government officials who need high-speed immersion.
I never realized by “high-speed immersion” they actually meant “language basics to get laid.”
The course starts out innocently enough. I can now say “It’s nice weather, isn’t it?” and read it in butchered Romaji (E-otenki desu, ne?) I can also say that I am American (Watashi wa Amerika-jin desu!) and tell you the obvious, that I speak a little Japanese, but I’m not very good yet. (Watashi wa nihongo ga skoshi hanashimasu, demo mada jozuo ja arimasen.) This sounds WAY more impressive when I babble it out loud.
This is where we get into the seedier aspects of the Pimsleur Method. After the self-deprecating niceties of Volume I, the second half of the course focuses primarily with getting your newfound friend drunk and getting them back to your place (For cake, right??)
Are you going to have something to drink? (Nani ka nomimasu ka?)
At my place. (Watashi no dokoro desu) or at your place? (Anata no dokoro desu ka?)
So now I can effectively proposition the opposite sex in Japanese. This will come in handy, since if I’m running off to Japan to have an affair (why do that when there are perfectly good prospects in Tampa!) I won’t really have much to say beyond telling them that I can’t scream affirmations of their prowess in their native tongue, as Watashi jozuo ja arimasen at nihongo ga yet… I mean.. madda.
Candy Little Girl?
I just got back from the Biometrics trade show in Tampa, Florida this week where I was running a hospitality event for my company. The event went off without a hitch. A good time was had by all, and if I had managed to snag a bite of the nibbles on offer I’m sure I would have agreed they were delectable.
I learned a few things about trade shows that up until recently I’d only filed under the heading “Urban Legend.” I never really thought there was any credence to the idea that a LOT of flirting, infidelity and general borking around happens at these events. That was before I actually went to one, and saw some of the prowlers in action.
First, there was the guy on the tradeshow floor who blatantly stopped and checked out my ass as I sauntered by. He was one of the booth personnel (not our booth, thankfully. I’d hate to lose my job over destroying one of my co-workers.) I skipped his booth.
THEN, the adorably gentlemanly but much older greeter at the exhibition floor called me a “really beautiful lady.” Twice.
I felt a little like Miaka in the first episode of Fushigi Yuugi, astonished that she gets flattered by two guys in one day. “Could it be that the way I look is attractive in this world?” Of course, neither of my particular suitors had long flowing hair, Heian-period kimono, or giant swords. So much the worse for me.
The coup de gross (no typo there, folks) came after the hospitality event. I’m heading to settle up the paperwork with the event manager, and I get caught in one of those dodge-dodge-dodge episodes coming off the elevator. The guy says “One more dance, but then I’m really going to have to go.” Gracious enough.
Fast forward twenty minutes. I’m getting on the elevator, and I hold the door for the two people coming on. Much to my surprise, one of them is… you guessed it, my dance partner. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You missed me, huh?”
“Of course! I miss you every day!” Okay, points for being charming. And British… but in sort of a smarmy, Ricky Gervais meets Stephen Fry sort of way. And he was something like 40. Still not creeped out, though. Elevator door closes.
“Ah, I know. I’m all the way in Boston. It’s hard to be so far away from me.”
“And yet, I’ve forgotten your name. My facial recognition though, is dead on.”
Okay, so this is sort of a smooth way to get someone’s name. I introduce myself (no last name) and he does the same. Steve. Smarmy, British Steve. It could have been worse. He could have been Scottish.
At this point, the kid in the elevator is utterly perplexed by this exchange, and is all too happy to get off at his floor. Ding. Door closes. Still not creeped out.
“So lets go get dinner.” Steve says. It was something to this effect, although I can’t really remember the exact words since it was at this exact moment when I started getting creeped out. I try to be gracious.
“Ohh, sorry Steve. I’ve got a really early flight. Thanks though!”
Not to be deterred, Steve “gets turned down for a fiver and asks for fifty grand” as Hornby so eloquently put it. We’re at the 20th floor. Steve is at 24th. I’m at 25th.
“Oh, well at least let me buy you a piece of cake. All girls love chocolate, right?”
DING! Steve’s floor. I’m now smiling to hide the horror.
“C’mon, it’s right down this way.”
I let him make the bush-league move of getting out of the elevator before me.
“Sorry Steve! Can’t tonight. Thanks though!”
“Aww if not now, then when?” He said, still wearing the million-dollar charm. I have to give the guy credit, he had a titanium set on him to think he could bribe a 27-year-old into bed with chocolate cake. Good thing he didn’t say crème brulee. The story might have had a different ending 
Actually, I wanted to tell him that it would happen when hell froze over, but the elevator door closed.
Actually, there were quite a few good comebacks that didn’t emerge from the fog until I was back to my room. Oh well. Esprit L’Espalier.
1. You should have promised me a golden retriever puppy, Steve. I don’t get in someone’s van for just any old thing.
2. We don’t pronounce it “cake” in this country, Steve.
3. (Courtesy of my sister) I suppose then you’re going to want me to blow out your candle too, right?
And so ends my tale of being, if only for a day, a raving trade show beauty in the land of sun-kissed exhibitions… and exhibitionists.
To Every Thing, a Season..
I’m very excited! This is my first autumn-themed post since I started the blog. Dimestore roared to life back in January, in the stale cold of winter and four miserable hours of sunlight a day. The seasonally affected do not blog well. Being “born” after Christmas but before the thaw, there wasn’t a whole lot to blog about but shoveling.
Summer this year, being just an annex of spring of course… didn’t really merit a whole lot of attention. By the middle of July we were all running into the streets and hissing at the glowing yellow orb that seemed to have come out of nowhere to cook us where we stood. Finally in September, we’re getting 77-degree days - but you can still tell.. the nip of fall is in the air!
Fall is my favorite season, and Eddie’s as well! I suppose it’s fitting. We met in the Fall, fell in love in the Fall… Every year we get excited to break out the sweaters (or the vests, if you’re Ed.) We start to gawk at the red-gold leaves zipping past on the highway, marvel at our breath condensing in the air, and I start to get nervous about all the classes I’ve piled on.
Nano is only two months away now, and I’m starting to get revved to spend a lot of time with the Boston crew, guzzling coffee and watching Travis give his yearly rendition of “Merlene the Drag Queen of Waxaucatchy County” (I know that’s spelled wrong, guys. I’m not southern. I’d appreciate an assist!) We’re going to miss Randy and his luxuriant mane this year! Plus, Travis cut off his burgeoning flowing locks, and I’m practically sporting a Kate Gosselin, so Brandon alone will carry the Torch of the Flowing Tresses.
This year we have a few new things to look forward to. The kittens are starting to realize that the world isn’t warm all year round, and have taken to snuggling up to our legs at night. Jawsie, who never snuggles with mama (she’s daddy’s little girl to be sure) was even laying alongside the last few nights, sucking up some radiation from her humans. Indiana, snuggle-bug by heart, was on the bed practically as soon as we were in it. I sort of look forward to waking up chilly in the mornings with kittens keeping my tootsies warm.
In my ongoing effort to get into the Christmas spirit - which was summarily executed by two years of Christmas spent working retail in the Rockingham Mall - I am joining a Christmas Chorus!! Dave and Beth, and Beth (we have a lot of Beths!) are all members of the Merrimack Valley Players, and after 4 years of crummy timing and overstuffed schedules, they have finally convinced me to give MVP a go for the Christmas season. I guess it’s a step in the right direction, hmm? So, in a bitter irony, I will spend my most favorite season singing the musical propaganda of my least favorite season. As Vonnegut would say, “So it goes.”
More than anything else, Fall means baking for me. The house is cool enough to turn on the oven, and so we break out the recipe books. I start to churn out hamburger stew and fish chowders, and we make a lot of bread during the fall and winter. My favorite, English Cottage Loaf will be showing up in the oven pretty soon. It’s soft and chewy, an incredible starter for toast with butter and honey. One batch of dough makes two hulking loaves - which last about three days in our house. Labor Day Weekend will most likely see the start of the bread-making season at Casa Cianci.
We’re looking forward to trying our hand at something new this year as well! Every year we talk about canning our own jam, and I always have a craving for my favorite winter comfort food - macaroni and cheese with stewed tomatoes. This year, we’re going to try a few recipes, and turn the kitchen into a bonafide assembly line for sweets and preserves. If all goes well, you might just find some in your Christmas stocking (but only if you’ve been really, really good… or can entertain us with your stories of being an utter degenerate.) I’ll probably blog the cooking/canning process for the curious… and because I know Brandon is going to cause me to lag behind in blog posts sooner or later, and it’s something interesting to write about!
Sad as I am that our very brief summer is drawing to a close, I’m very much looking forward to all the projects and events coming up over the next few months.
Dear Twitter…
By the time you read this, my stream will be gone.
But let’s not be sad or contemplate rash displays to prove your affection to me… we should just remember the good times. Like when Chris would say bombastic things about my birth control failing, or when you introduced me to Spymaster and I played and played that hamster-wheel of a game until that fad too inevitably ran aground. Or how about all the delightful updates about poop nuggets and links to deeply meaningful rants about the dilapidated publishing industry? Remember how much fun we had with those?
Alas, all good things… and let’s face it even some terminally distasteful things must come to an end (Just ask MJ and Jerry Falwell.) And so it is with a tear in my eye and a bitter-sweet mid-90’s breakup song in my heart that I bid you adieu.
I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’ve found someone else… and I’d really appreciate it if you’d respect my decision. I didn’t *mean* to start using Facebook. I definitely didn’t intend for it to turn out like this. It’s just, Facebook was filled with people I actually know… and c’mon, how could I resist typing more than 140 characters? Really?
What did you really have to offer me? Be honest. Did you ever give me cool quizzes about what kind of “Fucking Awesome Spirit Animal” I am? Or suggest cool things like being barefoot and drinking wine that I could be a fan of? You can’t even integrate my GoodReads list, or aggregate my college schedule seamlessly! I just feel like you have a lot of growing up to do. I mean, you don’t even have a revenue stream! You’re like… three years old! That’s practically middle aged in the social media world! Anddd yeah I guess sometimes you’re over capacity… or there’s something “technically wrong”… or you ignore me when I tell you to unfollow people. And you’re always trying to introduce me to these really slutty women, and guys who just want to sell me stuff. I dunno. It’s not cool.
I’m sure you won’t even notice I’m gone. There are plenty of multi-level marketing entrepreneurs and stay-at-home moms to keep you busy… and your celebrity friends! You’ll always have Will and Ashton and Kevin and Nate! You have your boys to hang with… It’s kind of like “Entourage” except without all the sushi and the angry agent.
So, cheer up emo kid. You’re gonna be okay without me.
You’ll see.
Ponyo and Saturday Morning Cartoons and Adulthood and Drugs
Our recent trip to the movie theatre to see Miyuzaki’s newest flick “Ponyo” has restarted a conversation that began back in July concerning what kids watch growing up, and why everyone is now on psychotropic drugs. Bear with me, it’s going to be a rough ride. First, a review of Ponyo.
Ponyo, the story of a tiny little fish person who becomes friends with a human boy named Sosuke, is the latest movie from the creator of Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away, and (my personal favorite) Howl’s Moving Castle. Miyuzaki is known for his whimsical stories, and Ponyo was no exception to his signature style. It was great!
The first thing to know about going to see a Miyuzaki movie is that, if you are over the age of say… six… you should be high. Very, very high. Dangerously inebriated, even. Actually, picture the kind of drug saturation that typically results in thinking for the rest of your life that you’re a glass of OJ and that you’ll die if you tip over. Miyuzaki movies make very little sense to anyone who believes in the laws of gravity or chronology. If you can let go of those few trifles, you’re in for a treat. Ponyo is not the best animation I’ve ever seen, much less the most creative story, but it was still beautiful and fun. It’s a strange mix of ecological morality tale and strange child-like love story. At moments during the story, mainly when Ponyo turns into something resembling a chicken while running on the heads of magically-created fish that are the result of an unfortunate spill of rainbow-colored magic potions, you begin to think that maybe the girl at the concession stand put a tab or two of acid in the bottom of your tank of Sierra Mist. Don’t worry. You’re not in fact drugged (although as I mentioned before, it would be helpful.) This is just the way Miyuzaki does things. Style points!
During the movie of course, the grade school crowd stared at the multi-colored screen with rapt attention, completely accepting of the fact that a fish turned into a little girl and that toy boats turn into real boats, and that love really can turn you into something beautiful (it’s a long story…) They have no problem with the fact that reality checks out, and they let the spectacle of sparklies and craziness happen. They’re used to it, because of course all of their Saturday morning animated entertainment is equally as psychedelic and ridiculous.
So here’s the conversation Ed and I had after watching a morning of Saturday shows with his small cousins in Michigan… why are we surprised when small children who are raised on a diet of bombastic shows with no tether on reality, then grow up to smoke dope and drop acid and drink heavily?
After seeing a few hours of children’s programming, the two-bit armchair psych theory is this: Children, after formative years filled with the magical and impossible, grow into adults who desire these things in a world that is, for the most part, as bleak as gravel and sawdust. We go to offices every day that have beige printers, beige desks, beige eco-friendly recycled copy paper, bare whiteboards and grey, pitiful coffee that is not hot. Superheroes do not burst through brick walls and save boobular double-crossing evil-guy-groupies. Telekinetic-monkey-spiral-galaxy-invaders with robot arms do not try to steal platinum cockroaches from high schools filled with kids with x-men powers. (Hey, it’s pretty close to what we saw. I can’t remember the title. I just remember that it was electric colored and had spanish accents.) When none of these things happen at our dogshit-boring offices, in effect the world has welshed on the bet it made with us when we were knee-high to a midget and were being pickled with visions of two-dimensional splendor and jiggly men in red suits who brought us the items of our wildest desire.
So most adults do drugs. Heavily. And we drink. Heavily. It’s actually surprising in a way that office-dwellers don’t unanimously live in a Brave New Worldish chemical stupor from 5:15pm on Friday until they crack the door to their office the following Monday morning. It’s only a matter of our Freudian super-ego telling us to cut the shit and play the game that keeps us to three or four martinis and a hugging date with our toilets at 3am on Saturday, so we can recover sufficiently on Sunday to be reasonably functional for the start of a new negative feedback loop on Monday morning.
Could it be that if we were fed something a little more tame in our formative years, we might not spend our adult years (not to mention millions of dollars of dispensable income) trying to replace the euphoria of our youth? I don’t know, but I’d like to think so.
Review: Little Bee by Chris Cleave
I came into Little Bee knowing precious few things about the author or the story. It was recommended to me as a “You Might Also Like” on Goodreads… I forget for which book. I threw it on my list and IMMEDIATELY people on Twitter were saying “Loved it. You have to read it.”
I bought it because it was the first thing to come to mind when I was showing a friend how to buy books directly from the Kindle. I remembered all the praise, and click-click… it was mine. I’m really glad I picked that one up!
I’m not going to tell you much about Bee, because much as it’s suggested on the Goodreads description, it’s just too good to be spoiled by explanation. I will tell you that it is a very sad story, the kind of thing you don’t want to read when your seratonin levels are slumping. It’s a book about the realities of war, the frivolity of the western world, and the brutality of the parts of Africa most of us would rather just forget about.
The story is expertly written, its atmosphere and narrative style intimate, at moments uncomfortably so. The characters are real to you, real in their failures and their fears, all snarled up in a world they can’t help but keep stumbling through. None are exactly what they seem at the outset, and none get out unscathed.
The savior of the entire story is Charlie, the optimistic and wide-eyed three-year-old in a Batman suit, “fighting the baddies” and balancing out an appropriately bleak-hearted adult cast of characters. Charlie makes you laugh even when you think you shouldn’t. He’s a gem. If I have a son, I’ll want him to be as sweet as Charlie.
Bee herself runs the risk of being a two-dimensional character, until you know all of her secrets. Like thousands in her position, a good heart is clouded by awful memories and terrible burdens. It makes her transformation in the reader’s eyes all the more potent. The Bee you know through the biggest part of the story is not the Bee you will walk away from when you close the cover.
There are certain stories that get under your skin, that just can’t help but cling to you long after you’ve moved on from them. Little Bee is one of those stories for me. If you’re okay with that type of book, then Bee is a must read.
