On Tuesday, I finished Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Road, for the second time. I thought my emotional response would be more controlled the second time through; instead I bawled in my office with other graduate students surrounding me and thought about the father and the son, and the Father and the Son. The things we sacrifice are so often the things we live for.
I don't think I could be like the mother; I could never willingly leave Wesley or Charles Lamb. I think I could last longer without food and water than I could without Wesley. If he dies first, I won't be able to last long. Or maybe my body will and that will be the torture of it.
Unlike The Border Trilogy and other work I've read by McCarthy, The Road echoes with redemption and hope. Despite cannibals, despite no light, despite soot and polluted water--there is the boy and the man who lives only for the survival of that boy.
I guess the question could be "Why continue? Why live?" and the answer is stuck in the boy's matted hair and dirty face in the trusting "Okay, Papa."
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Marilynne Robinson
Recently, I finished Gilead and Home. Read them. Stop everything else, take up a pen, and devour these books. I read Housekeeping as a senior in high school; something about that book, or reading that book, changed me--but I'm not sure what. Gilead is definitely on the list of "favorite books in my lifetime." I loved Home; perhaps because of the ways it informs and plays off of Gilead. I don't know. They're both amazing. Part of me wishes I was a blend of Marilynne Robinson and Kimberly Johnson.
The term "grace" has been floating in my mind since reading these books. They deal primarily with God's grace, but also with the grace people allow each other. I fear that I am not a very graceful person, in movement or motive. I believe in severity, perhaps I prefer severity, because I do not grasp the possibility of grace. I have faith in its reality in God, but oh I am weak and ignorant and proud and selfish and prefer the gauntlet to the maggoty remembrance of my sins. How do I grant myself grace? And if I cannot accept even my own measly offering, how will I ever accept the Lord's?
The term "grace" has been floating in my mind since reading these books. They deal primarily with God's grace, but also with the grace people allow each other. I fear that I am not a very graceful person, in movement or motive. I believe in severity, perhaps I prefer severity, because I do not grasp the possibility of grace. I have faith in its reality in God, but oh I am weak and ignorant and proud and selfish and prefer the gauntlet to the maggoty remembrance of my sins. How do I grant myself grace? And if I cannot accept even my own measly offering, how will I ever accept the Lord's?
After almost a year...
my essay "Sweet Execution" is published in abbreviated form by Juice: A Journal of the Ordinary.
At one point I believed it would be fun/exhilarating to edit a journal, to be in the midst of contemporary art. But editors have little time to write. Add to that list teachers, moms, dads, livers. There really isn't any time to write except the time I demand and create; which, sadly, is often mediocre.
"Mediocre" is one of those words like "disappoint." Both make me feel cold-sweat twisted, little pinchers of hell. This week I've been less than mediocre and trying not to feel disappointed in myself. Someday I will probably have to lower my expectations, but I hope I'm dead at that point and full of actual wisdom. Since fifth grade I've been composing silly lectures in my head (just for the sheer enjoyment of it as I shower, do my hair, prepare for sleep). One of my favorites (they're all personal and silent) sermonizes on the fact that life is hard for everyone, that we don't understand the others' circumstances, and thus we have no right to whine--since everyone struggles to endure. This is a lecture I need to start listening to. As far as pregnant women go, I'm running marathons. Who cares about some fatigue? Soreness? Discomfort? Inability to stand, sit, or lay for more than a few minutes? We have Charles Lamb--and he's worth a lot more than forty weeks of incubation. What frustrates me most is that I have to slow down, but I don't know how and I don't want to. So in my resistance, my emotions flare and poor students and professors have to decipher why in the world I'm weeping in front of them. I have no answers for them.
Point of this entry: (like a gate) my "newly married" essay is published, which is weird since I am soon to be a mom and ecstatic about it. I'm not displeased with the piece, but it is not published in the form I'd hoped. Oh well. Read it at your leisure.
At one point I believed it would be fun/exhilarating to edit a journal, to be in the midst of contemporary art. But editors have little time to write. Add to that list teachers, moms, dads, livers. There really isn't any time to write except the time I demand and create; which, sadly, is often mediocre.
"Mediocre" is one of those words like "disappoint." Both make me feel cold-sweat twisted, little pinchers of hell. This week I've been less than mediocre and trying not to feel disappointed in myself. Someday I will probably have to lower my expectations, but I hope I'm dead at that point and full of actual wisdom. Since fifth grade I've been composing silly lectures in my head (just for the sheer enjoyment of it as I shower, do my hair, prepare for sleep). One of my favorites (they're all personal and silent) sermonizes on the fact that life is hard for everyone, that we don't understand the others' circumstances, and thus we have no right to whine--since everyone struggles to endure. This is a lecture I need to start listening to. As far as pregnant women go, I'm running marathons. Who cares about some fatigue? Soreness? Discomfort? Inability to stand, sit, or lay for more than a few minutes? We have Charles Lamb--and he's worth a lot more than forty weeks of incubation. What frustrates me most is that I have to slow down, but I don't know how and I don't want to. So in my resistance, my emotions flare and poor students and professors have to decipher why in the world I'm weeping in front of them. I have no answers for them.
Point of this entry: (like a gate) my "newly married" essay is published, which is weird since I am soon to be a mom and ecstatic about it. I'm not displeased with the piece, but it is not published in the form I'd hoped. Oh well. Read it at your leisure.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Arts and Crafts
“…to see literary writing mainly as a “craft” also means to value (American) ideas like making, production, hard labor, and to believe in the virtue of repetition (i.e., mechanics) and rules. No one will argue against the fact that writing involves hard work, but so do most other things produced by humans. For in the end, this is what the word “craft” expresses in its essence: production.”
“Creating is negating the existing world, and reshaping it according to your own rules.”
“When the idea becomes methodical, it ceases to exist for its own sake, and it acquires the pragmatic goal of creating similar structures, that is, copies, imitations.”
“Our understanding of literature is always shaped by the frame given to it by our culture”
–Daniela Hurezanu
“Against Craft and Method—Some Thoughts on the Idea of Literature in Contemporary American Culture—”
As an American, then, is my art inevitably cast as a craft? Part of me does cling to the production factor as a measurement of success, but only if that "production" is quality, worthwhile, something worth valuing. Only if that "production" is a creation that has been shaped, reshaped, and reshapes others with a purpose.
I love Hurezanu's essay, actually. Yes: read more books in translation. Yes: trust in the magical reality. Yes: examine culture and understanding. Yes: understand the linguistic and actual perception of what I do.
At the same time, I don't look at my writing as a kitschy Popsicle stick formulation; finger-painting, perhaps, but not clutter. Perhaps art is only possible as individuals determine personal rules, follow them, trust them, and value them. Perhaps general values are only based on specific standards.
Birthdays
I am 22 today. Born at 1:30 a.m. my mom's smallest baby, cone-shaped bald head consisting mostly of eyes. Due on March 2, I slipped into the third just barely, probably breathless or laughing. Most likely my spirit felt the panic and punctuality of mortality and I couldn't put it off much longer. 40 weeks is a long time to wait in the womb.
Three months from today is Charles Lamb Cole's due date. The two of us our huge compared to our status two weeks ago. Every day I expect to find Wesley's paper-chain countdown to June 3. He's anxious to see his son. I am, too, but I could use another three months for preparation.
Three is my favorite number. I'm the third child, born on the third day of the third month. My name starts with the third letter of the alphabet and has three sets of pairs in it. It makes weird sense to me that my first child would be due three months from my birthday. I could be forming correlations that don't actually exist.
God and I have a deal about my birthday (I joke about this, but partially believe it). My birthday is always a beautiful day--springy if not sunny. This has happened since the day it snowed on my birthday (the year I received stretchy purple shorts and a big wheel I couldn't take outside for days, maybe weeks). We're celebrating with a picnic today, the clouds hint at rain, but the blue sky and temperate weather feel otherwise. Every year I forget how much I love my birthday. I forget the childish excitement that fills me with glee just knowing this is my day. (Wesley's goal for the month is to give me the happiest birthday ever. And each is, especially since we're married). Silly me, but I can't stop grinning.
Birthdays should really be a celebration of the parents (I felt this way before pregnancy). Birthdays mark the progress of their creations. I always feel compelled to say, "But what can I give you?" I hope I remember this question every year and try to answer it, knowing of course, that I never will.
Three months from today is Charles Lamb Cole's due date. The two of us our huge compared to our status two weeks ago. Every day I expect to find Wesley's paper-chain countdown to June 3. He's anxious to see his son. I am, too, but I could use another three months for preparation.
Three is my favorite number. I'm the third child, born on the third day of the third month. My name starts with the third letter of the alphabet and has three sets of pairs in it. It makes weird sense to me that my first child would be due three months from my birthday. I could be forming correlations that don't actually exist.
God and I have a deal about my birthday (I joke about this, but partially believe it). My birthday is always a beautiful day--springy if not sunny. This has happened since the day it snowed on my birthday (the year I received stretchy purple shorts and a big wheel I couldn't take outside for days, maybe weeks). We're celebrating with a picnic today, the clouds hint at rain, but the blue sky and temperate weather feel otherwise. Every year I forget how much I love my birthday. I forget the childish excitement that fills me with glee just knowing this is my day. (Wesley's goal for the month is to give me the happiest birthday ever. And each is, especially since we're married). Silly me, but I can't stop grinning.
Birthdays should really be a celebration of the parents (I felt this way before pregnancy). Birthdays mark the progress of their creations. I always feel compelled to say, "But what can I give you?" I hope I remember this question every year and try to answer it, knowing of course, that I never will.
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