A Little Apartment in Ohio

Outside, gray skies. A matte, smooth gray. Gray skies that last far beyond the reach of winter, into the new greening of spring, the wet warmth of summer, breaking only for the woodsmoke-filled breezes of fall. No sunbeams break through the non-existent clouds; the light is diffuse and muted. The rest of the landscape is secondary to the gray skies; the eye is drawn upward and captured by the dullness. The bare black branches of sleeping trees stabbing the skies in winter or fluffy green fingers and tendrils creeping across telephone poles in spring or flashes of lightning and a ground-meets-sky harmony of sheeting rain in summer are merely background noise.

Inside, color. A lemon-peel yellow spread across the walls in the living room, the kind of white that children imagine clouds to be in the kitchen, baby-boy blue in the bedrooms, and violent tangerine in the bathrooms. An old, worn couch, with pillows pounded and shaped by the sleepers of a thousand naps, sits against a wall in the living room, draped in a faded denim-blue slipcover printed with fat white flowers. A mirror in a wide, chunky, square silver frame embossed with the same fat flowers hangs over the couch. Unfinished-oak bookcases everywhere – at least seven fill the apartment. They’re filled with thousands of paperbacks and hardbacks – 3,546 at last count – many missing covers and held together with Scotch, duct, or electrical tape. Scattered across the tops of the bookcases are candles, blue-glass vases filled with many-colored silk flowers, pictures in beaded frames, and more books – dictionaries and an atlas and a series of Time Life books on photography. Pictures on the walls – Dali, Magritte, Matisse, Escher, and two abstracts: one in blues, yellows, whites, and oranges, the other swirls of charcoal black-and-white. A big scratched oak table is set in a nook called the “dining room”, and around it are solid oak chairs with fraying navy-blue cushions. Soft, silent curtains in a warm navy-blue hang at the sliding-glass door, replacing the clacking and clattering of the plastic verticals installed by the apartment managers. A shabby wool rug, in strips of blue, orange, white, and yellow, leads to the front door, to the gray skies.

Cynicism Explained

I find that I am becoming much more cynical about some things than I ever was before. I don't know how much cynicism really entered my life prior to this past year, but -- and lately, especially -- it has seemed very difficult for me not to view life through jade-tinted glasses. And I'm not talking the Emerald City here. I'm not entirely sure when the cynicism really started to creep into my life, or when I began to notice it, but lately, especially when I think about love or relationships or anything having to do with "happily ever after", I cannot help but get a green-tinted soul. It's endemic, I think, to people who have gone through divorces or other serious, life-upheaving ordeals. And for me, this is even harder to deal with, because I've always thought of myself as a glass-half-full kind of person.

Optimism, though, and ennui do not a yummy cocktail make. There's too much bitterness in ennui, and it doesn't contrast well with optimism's sunny sweetness. So, too often, as in the rest of life, the bitterness wins out. Which is odd. Because even in my dark days, I always thought of tomorrow as being a savior. In fact, "tomorrow" is what propelled me through much of my marriage. The thought -- the wish, the sometimes fleeting, ephemeral hope -- that tomorrow would be better. Today is tolerable, but only if tomorrow comes, and tomorrow is better. And then, when tomorrow came, and wasn't better, I didn't let my spirits flag or fail, but looked towards the new tomorrow.

If you're curious as to what has sparked this particular rant, it was my own stupidity. I was scrolling down the front page of the New York Times online (it's my home page, because I'm too lazy to actually go buy and read a newspaper, so just look at the Times every so often during the day to keep up with things), and saw their little marriage section highlighted in their "Inside NYTimes.com" bar at the bottom of the page. (This was after reading, and being mildly disgusted by, one of the front page articles, "A Yoga Manifesto".) How stupid of me! To read of the glowing joy of all these newly married couples, to see their ecstatically happy faces -- ugh! Perhaps if I had ever had those feelings of glowing joy and ecstasy myself during marriage, I might be more forgiving, and then just slightly sad and nostalgic, but, alas, no. No, I found myself reading with growing vitriol of these happy marriages, and thinking, "Yes, but how long will it last?"

I don't know that I was miserable during the entirety of my marriage. I'm sure there were lots of happy moments, or if not happy moments, at least content moments. I was reminded, in fact, of one of them the other day. When my husband and I graduated with our Bachelor of Arts degrees, in English, from THE Ohio State University (never forget the "The", it's very important), we walked down the ramp together, one hand each holding a diploma, the other holding "our chothers". It was a magical moment; and I only recall a few moments as happy as that. (One of them was reading my acceptance letter to OSU.) Ironically, my wedding day was not one of those moments. In fact, I will forever burn with shame over one of my most vivid memories of that day: snapping at my mother as she asked me if I really did want to cut my veil off the crown of pearls and things I was wearing in my hair. Isn't that lovely? Not the dancing or the food or the speeches or the pictures, but me snapping at my mother. Oh, whoever said that to marry young is a mistake is so RIGHT.

I do remember good things about being married, and on some days, I convince myself that the bad things were over-exaggerated, perhaps, or didn't happen quite as I remembered them, but then the rosiness fades, and I remember the bad things, and hurt all over again. It's a funny thing, but my husband and I have been separated (we're not divorced yet, for reasons neither of us can really elucidate) for almost a full nine months, and it still hurts every day. And for those quick to point out that it was my decision, yes, thank you, I hadn't forgotten. But just because it was the right decision (I'm still, unfortunately, certain about that), doesn't mean it wasn't a painful decision, and it doesn't mean that I don't still love him, and that it doesn't still hurt every bloody day.

Part of me aches, sometimes, to go back to things the way they were, even if things the way they were was slowing killing both of us. I miss my bodies (I don't know that I've written of them, but I will someday; they're a pain too intense for me to talk about much, my little fuzzy, soft, furry kitten bodies that I literally delivered with my own hands, and have watched grow from that moment of birth), and I miss all my books, not just the ones I got to take, and I miss my couch, and my vases of flowers and . . . I miss having a home. I miss coming home to a place that was mine, that knew me, that waited for me and loved me. . . . In Ohio, I had a home like that; a tiny little apartment, and even in California, I had a home. I remember and ache for my home in Ohio. So much so that I wrote a sketch of it for a class of mine last quarter. I'll post it, so you can see what my home was. Maybe that's what I miss most about being married. Home, with my husband, who was as much a part of my home and soul as anything else.

Sometimes I really do hate life, and can't wait to move on and see what lies beyond it. Oh, cynicism, you bloody awful thing, go away, go away! Let me live in peace, at least for awhile!

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us . . ."

There are many days -- many -- where I get a blue funk in my soul, and can't seem to shake it. It pervades my very existence, so that everything is colored with a delicate blue tinge -- say periwinkle -- and the shine has been rubbed off life, and everything is dim and dingy and slightly unreal. That's the way I've been feeling the last few days, and I don't know why. I mean, nothing in my life has really changed significantly -- things are just as much in stasis as they have been -- but every now and again the blue funk takes me, and I guess this is one of those "now" times.

Do you ever have a startlingly lucid realization of how others must see you? There is one person with whom I interact on a regular basis who always gives me the uncomfortable power to "see ourselfs as ithers see us", and I have to say, I can't think that Burns was really telling the truth when he begged for that power. Unless you have a shining soul, and are completely comfortable with yourself, you cannot possibly want to know what you look like through other people's eyes. I certainly don't, yet always get the opportunity to get a hint of what I must look like, especially when I talk with this person for any length of time (say, longer than 10 minutes). I always come off feeling like a right little bastard, too, I must admit. I mean, all the things I like about myself disappear into a mist of embarrassment and shame whenever this person says things which are totally justified and accurate and entirely too honest and . . . well, dammit, I guess that's the point, isn't it? I mean, I know he doesn't dislike me -- at least, I'm fairly certain he doesn't dislike me, and God help me if he does dislike me, because I'm relying on him to write me a fairly good recommendation for grad school. . . . I digress. Anyway, I'm reasonably sure (see how the blue funk takes its toll?) that he likes me, and I know his advice is well-meant, and is honest, and is certainly accurate in many ways (oh, the stings of accurate arrows!), but why is it that, whenever I talk to him, I feel like crawling deep inside myself, and not coming out?

I mean, the things we discussed today -- let me be honest with myself. I will be perfectly honest, and say that, yes, I think I'm fairly intelligent. God help me, I hope I am, because there are days when I feel like that is the only thing I have going for me. Do I think I'm smarter than everyone in the world? No. I know there are so many people who are so much more intelligent than I am, and I respect their intelligence. I do. I respect real intelligence when it manifests itself. I don't respect intelligence when someone says, "Oh, he's smart." I am paraphrasing and condensing both Holmes/Watson and Einstein (is this an unpardonable sin?) when I say that mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, so really, how can someone who has mediocre intelligence be expected to recognize real intelligence? But I think that people think I'm a snob, because stupidity is one of the things that I have so little patience with, and when confronted with elements of it, I become frustrated and restless and impatient. I used to have more patience for it, I think. But lately it seems like I'm surrounded by it, and drowning in it -- and why should that bother me so much? Do I hate stupid people? No. I don't. But am I as kind and patient as I can be when confronted with them? Here's the thing, and no one who has seen me in "real life" will believe it: if I am confronted with someone who has a question about something, and who is genuinely struggling to understand a concept, I am as patient and kind as I would be with anyone or anything. I really, truly am (and I feel almost compelled to post a recent transcript of me in a tutoring session with someone to prove it). I know that the impatience that I sort of exude when confronted with stupidity might make it almost impossible for many people who know me to actually believe this, but it's the truth. But stupidity posturing as intelligence -- that is something I cannot abide.

So, what's my point? Well, I know that person-referenced-above thinks that I have too high an opinion of my own intelligence. I don't! That's the point! I'm firmly convinced that, while I might be intelligent, I don't have as much as I might wish, so I have to grasp firmly what I do have, and fight what I cannot help but feel is the sea of ignorance trying to swamp me. If it does, then the only thing I really respect about myself will be washed away, and what will I have left?

Something else that this person makes me realize is that other people must see me as utterly argumentative. Am I? I don't know. Perhaps that goes along with being insecure about my hold on my intelligence. So often I feel misunderstood, like what I'm thinking/saying isn't getting across, so, yes, I suppose I push a little bit harder than I should to make what I'm trying to say clear. Why should it matter if people misinterpret me? I don't know. I haven't thought much about that one. Does it matter if people attribute to me motives and thoughts and things that don't actually exist? I don't know that, either. I do know that I passionately feel certain things, and that there are times when it is almost impossible for me to bite my tongue, and not say them. I know that my excess of passion often makes things uncomfortable for other people, and sets me at odds with almost everyone I know (how can I forget Christmas? When I was the only one holding firmly to a particular point, feeling the social leper every second I spoke, but unable to back away from the discussion with grace, because I felt so strongly about the topic), and I know that it has a tendency to flare up at the worst possible moments . . . but there are so many times I bite my tongue! There are so many times I wonder at my own, what, cowardice? I admire people who can say what they feel without inhibition. I certainly can't. That's the ironic thing. Most people would say I'm argumentative, and that I don't hesitate at all to say what I feel, and yet, if they knew! I suppose they'd run far, far away if they knew just how often I'd like to say precisely what I'm feeling or thinking about a particular topic. Especially injustice in some way. That is almost unbearable for me to ignore, yet I find that I often have to. . . . If those who call me confrontational knew how often I didn't say something, or backed off, simply because I didn't want to fight, or argue, or was afraid of conflict, I think they'd be rather surprised. I wonder if I only argue with those people with whom I feel comfortable enough to argue? I hadn't thought of that. Something to explore.

One last thought on being argumentative (yes, I've been called this all my life). I remember once that my sister and I were arguing over something, and because I felt passionately about it, I got rather heated, while my sister stayed calm and cucumber-like through the entire argument. And at the end of it, my dad, who had listened to the entire thing, commended my sister on her ability to stay calm and cucumber-like, and told me that I would do much better in my arguments if I were to copy my sister, and remain calm and cucumber-like. But I can't! That completely contravenes my entire personality! I suppose I should just accept an excess of passion and move on.

What else did that person say? Well, one thing he said made me feel tangentially completely ashamed of myself, and has called into question something which continually torments me: am I selfish? That is something with which I struggle so often, and can never come to a quite-conclusive conclusion. I think I am -- horribly selfish. Yet other people -- most people -- disagree with me. But today, for example, this person pointed out a particular behavior of mine that was distracting. It hadn't occurred to me that said behavior was distracting, and I felt utterly ashamed of myself for not recognizing that my little fits of impatience and frustration over stupidity might be distracting to someone who shouldn't be distracted by them. "You don't do a very good job of hiding it," he said, and I know he's right, because I thought I needn't hide it -- the only person who could see my facial expressions was him. But then he said, and somehow this had just not occurred to me at all, "It's very distracting for me, because I feel like I'm supposed to do something." How completely selfish of me! I know I have a tendency to not think about how my behavior will affect someone, and what else can that be called but selfishness? Oh, my soul is on fire with shame over that one. I've tried, I think, to be aware of how my behavior affects other people. Apparently I do a damn poor job of it.

Oh, Burns, you were full of crap. I don't like knowing what other people think of me. It makes me even more dissatisfied with myself than I already am.

Middle English

So I've just spent about half an hour listening to and practicing reading Middle English. What poetry! What music! It's so beautiful, so lilting and rhythmic. I came across this site, the Norton Anthology of English Literature companion site, while looking for some audio files of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and found, aside from the Canterbury Tales (which don't seem to be too difficult to find; EVERYONE reads those aloud), some awesome Old English readings by this guy named Rob Fulk, who has put out the definitive edition of Beowulf, and who is currently professing at one of the universities to which I'm applying -- Indiana University. A veritable treasure trove of readings. (How was that for alliteration?)

How do I know all this? It's because I'm a student -- albeit a new student -- of medieval literature. I've always loved it, but it's really been over the last few years that it's grabbed and held my attention. There's something so mysterious, so ethereal about it, that I cannot help but be drawn to it. So one of the classes I'm taking this quarter is -- yay! -- a medieval lit class. We're studying Chaucer (of course), but we're also studying Chretien de Troyes, and William Langland, and my favorite, the Pearl-poet, the man who wrote Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

I have, I have to admit, a fascination with Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. So much so that I've thought and brooded over this book and its place in the pantheon of medieval literature probably far too much. I plan on writing at least my master's thesis on it, and very possibly, if it furnishes enough material, my dissertation (all this is, of course, assuming I will be accepted to graduate school. God help me if I'm not). Let me elaborate a little bit. It sounds as though I've just come across SGGK. I haven't. It's been firmly entrenched in my mind since last spring quarter, when I was first introduced to the concept of "community" and medieval literature (that was a class I took on medieval communities, which was also fascinating). I began to have this idea, which I won't explicate here, because it still needs working out, and the idea has grown and developed and become its own little person, and is now begging to be written out.

There's this paper that I've been writing for -- literally -- a year now. It was born during that class I mentioned, and also coincided with the beginning of the end of my marriage and my last job. That is to say, it did not "get born" at an auspicious time. Since then, however, it has been written -- and rewritten -- and rewritten -- and rewritten -- so many times that I'm not even sure I could tell you what the original idea was. (Yes, I could! I compulsively keep every scrap of digital paper that marks the trajectory of one idea to the next, simply because I can't always tell when an idea I discarded in the past might become valuable in the future. Hey, it's digital. It's not like I have scraps of paper lying around my house (although I do). So I'm sure I could fairly easily lay my hands on that first sketch I drew of the burgeoning idea.) At any rate, I have to submit this paper by the end of this spring quarter (so, by June), and to be honest, I'm terrified. I know what the professor expects of it -- what else would YOU expect of a paper that's been in the writing for a year? -- and I'm not sure my paper will deliver. There's so much to say! I'm terrible at trying to narrow down what it is I'm going to say, too. But finish the paper I will, come hell or high water, and I'll just cross my fingers that it isn't too jumbled from its millions of rewritings that it makes sense -- and more than that, that it's a good paper.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, yes, the Middle English audio files. Why was I searching for them? Because the professor of this class I'm taking this quarter (who is, incidentally, the professor with whom I took the class last spring quarter, and who is waiting -- ever so patiently and kindly -- for my paper) has asked us to read to him 15 lines of Middle English. I've chosen SGGK, because it's more interesting dialectically (I think) than Chaucer, and so I was searching for some samples. I came across a few, the first one I mentioned at the Norton site, and then this one here, at a site from Arizona State University (another school to which I'm applying). I've decided to go with the passage read in the first (which is the first 19 lines of the poem), for two reasons: firstly, because I think the first 19 lines are among the coolest in the entirety of the poem; and secondly, because they were read by Marie Borroff, who's a sort of hero of mine, and listening to her voice was absolutely thrilling (yes, second reason might be sort of lame, but see first reason). Following are the first 19 lines, the original Middle English in parenthesis:

Since the siege and assault was ceased at Troy, (Siþen þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,)
The walls breached and burnt down to brands and ashes, (Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondez and askez,)
The knight that had knotted the nets of deceit (Þe tulk þat þe trammes of tresoun þer wroȝt)
Was impeached for his perfidy, proven most true, (Watz tried for his tricherie,þe trewest on erthe)
It was high-born Aeneas and his haughty race (Hit watz Ennias þe athel, and his highe kynde,)
That since prevailed over provinces, and proudly reigned (Þat siþen depreced prouinces, and patrounes bicome)
Over well-nigh all the wealth of the West Isles. (Welneȝe of al þe wele in þe west iles.)
Great Romulus to Rome repairs in haste; (Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swyþe,)
With boast and with bravery builds he that city (With gret bobbaunce þat burȝe he biges vpon fyrst,)
And names it with his own name, that it now bears. (And neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;)
Ticius to Tuscany, and towers raises. (Tirius to Tuskan and teldes bigynnes,)
Langobard in Lombardy lays out homes, (Langaberde in Lumbardie lyftes vp homes,)
And far over the French Sea, Felix Brutus (And fer ouer þe French flod Felix Brutus)
On many broad hills and high Britain he sets, (On mony bonkkes ful brode he)
most fair,(wyth wynne,)
Where war and wrack and wonder (Where werre and and wonder)
By shifts have sojourned there, (Bi syþez wont þerinne,)
And bliss by turns with blunder, (And oft boþe blysse and blunder)
In that land's lot had share. (Ful skete hatz skyfted synne.)

Isn't that gorgeous? It's the founding of Britain, from Aeneas to Brutus . . . I love the last four lines, and I especially love them in Middle English. (As a note, by the way, the Middle English is from the Gordon edition, and the translation is from the Norton critical edition, translated by Marie Borroff.)

There's magic in those lines, in those words, and that can't be denied. It's why I'm so infatuated with medieval literature. I'm sure that Keats, when he wrote of his "fairylands forlorn", was thinking of the magic in all the words that had come before him. What a heritage of gorgeousness there is in the English language! As a writer, I can only despair of ever doing it even the smallest bit of justice. As a reader, I love it unconstrainedly.

A Very Bad Thing

Okay, it is an appallingly bad thing when you start a blog, promise to write every day, and then . . . let almost two months (seriously -- February 22nd is two days shy of being two months ago) go by without even remembering that you have a blog. Very, very bad. Not evil or wicked or stupid, just bad.

So, anyway, here I am, contrite as ever, willing to put some more thought into words, even though it is 2:30 in the morning, and I should really be in bed, asleep, because I have school tomorrow, and, um, I'm not quite finished with my homework. But honestly, can you blame me? Rhetorics vs. own brain. Is there even a contest? Not that Plato isn't fascinating -- in the proper time and place. But right now . . . well, I can't justify reading any more of Yvain right now, even though the rest of it is due on Thursday, because I find that when I read ahead, I always end up frustrating the professor, other students, and myself (mostly because I forget where we were supposed to stop, so introduce into the conversation things that don't properly belong there, and upset the professor's plans for the class, which inevitably earns me a disgruntled grimace), and the thought of writing an essay on the Sophists just . . . isn't . . . doing it for me. But I'm not ready for bed. I've been re-reading the Emily books (L.M. Montgomery, more properly famous for the Anne books (you know, Anne of Green Gables, Anne of the Island, Anne of Ad Infinitum)), and it makes me feel both frustrated and guilty when I read about how much Emily writes. It always makes me question my own desire to write: if I don't write obsessively (because I really don't), does that mean I don't have the burning desire? And if I don't have the burning desire, should I really write? Should I bother people with my views on things, with stories that come out of my head? If I don't have the urge to commit words to paper (or digital paper) every day, does that mean that I shouldn't really call myself a writer? Who knows? I certainly don't. That's why I'm throwing this question into the digital atmosphere, although I hardly expect a response.

Anyway. I got completely off the beaten path. Of course, I was never on the beaten path, and I sometimes wish that I could have walked it once or twice in my lifetime. But honestly, every time it seemed my path -- my own delightful, off-beat, twisty, windy, rough and unpredictable road -- crossed the beaten path, well, I have to admit that I veered away from it as quickly as my legs could take me. I don't know why, but there is something about the beaten path that terrifies me with its predictability. Even now, thinking of becoming a professor -- well, if I have to be like some of the professors I've known . . . let's just say that, charming as they are, they are so dull and full of predictability that I wouldn't be surprised if their personal routine varies not a jot. And then there are other professors -- the professor I had last quarter (yes, I was stupid enough to take two classes with an entirely untried professor, something I shall never do again), for example, was so full of himself that he assigned himself as an author on which we -- his class -- could write a report AND PRESENT IT TO THE CLASS!!! AND he called Chaucer "cheesy". I shall never forgive him for either. Both were unpardonable offenses, as far as I'm concerned. What was I saying? Oh, yes, well, they weren't necessarily dull and predictable, but neither did they wander far from the beaten path. So wandering far from the madding crowd does have its compensations, even if they are few and far between. (Of course, if I wander too far, I might end up like a professor I had at Ohio State, who was such a fascinating specimen of unkempt professor-dom that I cannot recall him without both a cringe and a laugh. I should tell that story one day. . . .)

A brief digression: There is a gray cat asleep on my bed right now. He has decided that he should occupy the entirety of the bed, so has stretched his little catness across it as far as he can -- which is astonishingly far for such a little beast. I will have to move him when I get into bed, but for right now I'll let him lie there, looking so ridiculously, abominably adorable that it is really taking all my self-control not to go over there, bury my face in his soft, gray, velvety stomach and kiss him into bad humor (for what cat likes being wakened from a sound sleep by having its belly attacked?). Oh, cats! How do people ever get along without you?

I just re-read this post, and it occurs to me I have said nothing coherent. Ah, well, it's almost three o'clock in the morning. I should be allowed moments -- or half-hours -- of incoherency. I should probably also wander along to bed, having satisfied some kind of soul-ache by putting a few words down on paper-ish. I wonder if that's the whole thing about writing? One doesn't ache to do it, but one feels so much better after they do? Who knows.