Conforming--or Not--and Coping

Despite my better judgement, I've continued to listen to punk rock on the way to work:  Bad Religion, the Clash, the Violent Femmes, the Ramones.  I've thought about the non-conformists that I've met throughout the years.  I've thought about my own years of resisting becoming what the greater culture told me I should be; sure, I read Seventeen magazine and Glamour, but I read them more to avoid becoming that kind of female than to pick up beauty and fashion tips.

Some of you might say I internalized that process a bit too well.

Or maybe I'm just sloppy.  I prefer to think of it as having set priorities.  I'm not going to spend hours every week ironing.  I'll put on some lipstick, but I'm not going to take a half hour or more every night before bedtime to moisturize.

Or maybe I'm lucky to be blessed with relatively good skin.

It will be interesting to see if these priorities change as I get older.  Will I spend more time coloring my hair as more gray comes in?  Will I spend more time smoothing creams on my skin as I see more creases and wrinkles?

My dermatologist would jump right in to remind me that I don't spend enough time on sunscreens now.  He's right.  I don't like lotions, so my beauty regimens, such as they are, avoid those things.  I have more sensitivity to smell than lots of people, so chemical smells are often a problem for me, as are most cosmetic and soap smells.

I will, however, tolerate the noxious fumes if I can have a bit of brightness added to my hair.  Yes, I realize the contradiction.  I realize the cost:  I could buy a lot of mosquito netting that would help African children avoid malaria for the cost of the coloring my hair that I do several times a year.

I found myself thinking about my own aesthetic ideas of beauty and art yesterday as I read the various people commenting on the controversy erupting in the young, gay, male art scene in New York City (go here for a succinct timeline of the controversy with links; go here for further elucidation by one of the poets who kicked off the conversation with an interview in The New York Times).  It may take you back to the horrors of young adulthood and remind you of why you're happy to have made it safely to the other side.

It's interesting to be at midlife and find our relationships with our physical selves changing.  When I was young, I felt myself at war with my body and its tendency to hang on to more weight than I wanted it to (oh, those infernal last 5 pounds).  Now that I'm older, I'm more at peace, and profoundly grateful not to be facing some of the challenges that my friends have faced or are facing:  cancers of all sorts, diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, herniated disks, the list goes on.

The other day, I found myself wondering if those of us who resist conforming find ourselves with coping skills we didn't expect later.  I've spent a lot of time thinking about what our culture tells me I should want (beauty, endless youth, fame, money) and my own values.  I've thought about what I want (time to create, a life lived with integrity, social justice) and what to do when what I want conflicts with what the culture tells me I should want.

I work in higher education, a field facing job losses and reorganization and shrinking futures.  I wonder if my past as a sneering adolescent has better prepared me for this time than someone who has spent their whole life trying to maintain appearances, trying to afford an upper-middle-class existence.

Or maybe it's my apocalypse girl self, the one who's always scanning the horizon for the mushroom cloud, the one who stockpiles staples, the one who shudders at how easily the water supply can be disrupted--maybe she's the one who keeps me calm in the face of possible catastrophe.

Are We All Archivists Now?

Kelli's recent post about poets and the importance of archiving our lives made me think about a book I just finished reading, Dana Spiotta's Stone Arabia.  It's a book that I started out loving, but in the end, it wasn't the book I hoped it would be.

There's a lot to like about this book.  It's an interesting look into the lives of aging musicians and siblings at midlife.  But I most enjoyed its exploration of what it means to narrate our lives, to be our own archivists, to catalogue all our creative work--and to make a creative work out of the cataloguing itself.

Nik, the aging musician, began cataloguing his work early on.  Along the way, he creates both real and fake narratives, which leads us to question what the truth of his life is.  His motto is "Self-curate or disappear" (page 2).  Much of his work is done the old-fashioned way, by hand.

Nik's neice wants to create a documentary, and part of the book shows this process.  It's much more boring to read about her filming than to read about Nik's elaborate album covers, his liner notes, his interviews with fake reporters--he even elaborately illustrates and decorates the paper that he uses to wrap the items that he mails.

I wonder if Spiotta does this on purpose, this making of the hand-made more alluring than the making of the film.  I say this because the end of the book made me feel that Spiotta had run out of steam and just wanted to bring the narrative to a close.  I was very unsatisfied with the ending, although it did work in its own way.

Along the way Spiotta gives the reader an interesting window into the rock and roll world of the late 70's.  The main character Denise reflects about the subversiveness of the Sex Pistols: "No one except us girls understood how subversive Johnny Rotten's anti-sex stance really was.  So obnoxiously and unanswerably defiant, the perfect retort to any concern:  It's boring." (page 162, emphasis in original) and  "One other truly subversive thing about the Sex Pistols and the British punks:  bad teeth.  Bad smells, bad teeth, bad skin--this was the real stuff of rebellion.  It didn't last long as an aesthetic.  But wasn't it amazing for a moment?"(page 170).

The sadness of the book is that no matter how defiant we are in our wayward youth, we all must face aging.  This book shows an aging parent in the full throws of dementia, with some interesting observations about the holding hands that  calms the agitated parent:  "We started out with all this body intimacy when I was a baby and then a child . . .  .  We were back to the intimacy of our two bodies." (page 187).

Here's one of my favorite lines from the book:  "He pursued a lifetime of abuse that could only come from a warped relationship with the future" (page 33).  And of course, even that kind of coping, the excess drug and alcohol abuse, won't save us.

But will self-archiving save us?  The book doesn't wrestle with that question, not explicitly.  I suspect that it's a question that haunts most artists, just the way it haunts the musician in this book.

Modern Families, Modern Workplaces, Modern Music

--On Tuesday night, we did our spin class to the music of Donna Summer and the Bee Gees.  I forgot how good a lot of that music was.  And it's got a great beat, and you can pedal to it--I was very sore the next day.

--Of course, maybe I was sore because I couldn't stay for the cool down and stretching.  In taking care of my physical body, stretching is the area that I most overlook/avoid/skimp on.  The only stretching I do is the cool down after class.

--I do try to get up from my desk periodically to take a short walk.  I should incorporate some stretching.

--On my way to work yesterday, I listened to the Clash.  I have written before about listening to the angry music of my youth whilst on my way to meetings, so I won't do it again here.  Would my mood be different if I listened to disco music on my way to work?

--I've been watching old Mary Tyler Moore shows and thinking of how few modern shows depict the workplace.  No wonder I thought that having a career would be fabulous.  We never see Mary Tyler Moore wonder if her work makes a difference, if she's living up to her full potential.  Even the annoying colleagues are lovingly annoying, not annoying in a sociopathic way.

--Interesting, too, to watch the newsroom and to know what tidal waves of change are heading towards Mary Tyler Moore and her colleagues.  I seem to recall that the Mary Tyler Moore show spun off Lou Grant (the boss) in his own show where he went off to work for a newspaper--bad career move!

--Suddenly, I have an idea for a poem that I wouldn't have had without this blog post.  Here are lines that just bubbled up to me:

No one is sexually harassed on the Mary Tyler Moore show.

No one faces lay offs on the Mary Tyler Moore show.

Mary Tyler Moore faces few existential crises.*  At the end of the day, the evening news gives information and she can sleep the sleep of the satisfied, those sure that they are doing what they were put on the planet to do.

--O.K., for that last one, I probably wouldn't keep it as one line.

--Here's another poem idea:  what does Mary Tyler Moore dream of?  Piloting an airplane across the Pacific?  Going back to school to be  . . . what?

--After watching Mary Tyler Moore, I watched Modern Family and reflected on how the world has changed since Mary Tyler Moore.  A gay family!  Minorities!  Characters who move easily between Spanish and English!

--And last night seemed especially ground breaking.  I'll save the big surprises for those of you who have yet to watch it.  But I can tell you this without spoiling anything:  we finally see the gay couple behaving tenderly with each other.  While I agree that it's great to see them as a normal couple who fight and bicker and get frustrated with all the regular stuff of daily life, I'd also like to see them adoringly gaze at each other or--gasp!--kiss.

--What do any of these characters on Modern Family do?  How do they afford such nice houses?  One of them is a lawyer, and one sells real estate--both males.  What do the women do?  What year is it on Modern Family?  How strange is it that Mary Tyler Moore still seems so revolutionary in terms of depicting women working for a paycheck?

--We don't see many television characters who go to work, do we?  Of course, I don't watch much TV, and I know that scripted shows aren't as numerous as they once were.   Still, we don't see many characters who work outside the home, or characters who are wrestling with artistic ambitions, or characters who are wrestling with how to integrate their spiritual yearnings with their regular lives.

--I realize I'm not a typical viewer, but surely I'm not the only one who would like to see these types of characters.  A woman at midlife dreams of different narrative arcs . . .


*or at least few existential crises that can't be solved by the end of the episode

Comforts of All Kinds

Today is the birthday of Jane Kenyon.  If I was teaching an American Lit survey class, I'd include her as a poet who has done more than perhaps any other poet to show us what it's like to live with depression.  What I especially like about her work is that she shows that there's more to her life and work than just the depression.  My favorite poem of hers is "Otherwise," which you can find here.

Or is my favorite "Having It Out with Melancholy"?  Read it here and contrast it with "Otherwise."  Just that simple exercise shows her range.

I love her simplicity, which hides a complexity--read "Let Evening Come" here and see what I mean.  It's a great poem to show your writing students the value of repetition, the value of syllabics.

What I find interesting about my love of her is that even with knowledge of her depression, her life on the farm with soulmate and fellow poet Donald Hall sounds so idyllic.  Read this essay of his and see if you don't agree.

Of course, reading that essay, I'm haunted by the knowledge that Kenyon will die young of leukemia.  Idyllic life will only last so long and take you so far.

The loss of Jane Kenyon led Donald Hall to write some of the most searing poems of grief I've ever read.  Once, long ago, I subscribed to The Threepenny Review.  I was back and forth between the town where I worked and the town where my spouse was going to grad school, and it was getting to be exhausting.  I got the issue which presented Hall's "Letter in Autumn," which you can read here.  When I got to those last lines, that longing to be a tree, I wept.  I still haven't found the courage to read his collected poems of grief, Without.    I should find a copy of it and keep it--at some point, I expect to have some heavy grieving to do as I outlive everyone I love (unless, of course, a freak accident takes me out earlier).

Today is also the birthday of Margaret Wise Brown, who is most famous for her children's book, Goodnight Moon.  I didn't have this book as part of my childhood, but years later, I read it over and over again to my nephew.  I came to understand its appeal.

In fact, there have been many times that I wished I had my own copy.  I fancied it would be soothing.

Out of those longings, came these two poems.  I wrote the first poem, which I then reworked into a sonnet.


Goodnight Moon


Even though the children are grown and gone,
she still sings at night.
Fretful memories haunt the house.
So she does what she always
did, for twenty years, before childhood ended.

She heats the milk in a pan, pours
it into calming Christmas mugs (no matter the season), dusts
each with a sprinkle of nutmeg. She goes
from room to room, checking closet doors
and dimming lights. And she sings
the special lullabies, that repertoire of sleepy songs.

He sits in the armchair in the den
and sips his mug of milk.
The cats linger in his lap
as he leafs through the books his children used to love.

In the sonnet version below, the last 2 lines are from Brown's book:
 
 
Goodnight Moon


She still sings at night,
though her children are grown.
Her songs soothed their fright,
and they now soothe her own.

He sits in his chair
with the cats gathered round.
They all sit and stare
mesmerized by the song’s sound.

She brings him warm milk in an old Christmas mug
with a dash of nutmeg on top.
They read the old books, stretched out on the rug
until sleep makes them stop.

“Goodnight stars, Goodnight air
Goodnight noises everywhere.”

Holmes, House, and Other Recurring Characters

On this day, in 1859, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born.  What would the world be like had we never had a Sherlock Holmes?

Last night, as I watched the special show before the last show of House, I was most interested in the segment where the writers talked about how Sherlock Holmes influenced them, even down to the names of the characters:  House/Holmes (say the last name out loud to remember that it sounds like Homes), Watson/Wilson.  And of course, the reasoning on the show can be very Sherlock Holmesian.  If you consider every possibility, you're more likely to find the answer.

I don't know how often Holmes had an a-ha moment of epiphany as he was doing something completely unrelated.  That type of discovery has played a large role in House.  Or maybe that's just what I remember most.

I read somewhere that Conan Doyle created a recurring character in response to the 19th century periodical and its demand for a continuing story with cliffhangers that would require readers to buy the next issue.  Dickens was a master of this form.

Conan Doyle was a doctor, so one might imagine that he had less time to create a novel in segments.  But he could create a character that audiences would be hungry to see again and again.  Much of modern television works the same way.

I wonder how much modern literature works that way.  Certainly much detective fiction works that way.  I could make a case that blogging is similar.  I go back to my favorite blogs not so much to learn something, but because I like the blogger's voice.  I'm happy to read my favorite bloggers talk about what they're reading or what they're writing or their work lives or their children or their gardens.  It's the voice I want to hear, not the content.  And occasionally, I do want to tune in to the narrative to see what happens, but that's usually secondary.

I also find inspiring the story of Conan Doyle's literary success (ultimately he would write 4 novels and 56 short stories).  He managed to write while building a medical practice that would flourish.  It can be done!  We can hold down full-time, demanding jobs while creating a body of literary work that will outlast us and influence creative types over 100 years later.

Birding and "The Big Year"

On Saturday, after an intense few hours of outdoor work, we settled in for a movie, along with blue cheese, crackers, and red wine.  We had torrential rain, which made being indoors with a movie--after doing some outdoor work--especially wonderful.

Even better, we had a good movie.  I don't know if it's something about the movies being released or something about me as a viewer at midlife, but most movies just don't seem worth the time anymore, even if it's just to kill a few hours on a Saturday.  For example, last week-end, we watched The Descendants.  Even the presence of George Clooney and the beauty of the Hawaiian setting couldn't relieve my persistent feeling of boredom.

On Saturday, we watched The Big Year.  It showed up on some end-of-year lists as a movie that was surprisingly good.  I was doubtful:  a movie about people watching birds?  Really?  But it has a great cast and a quest theme, and I thought it was worth a risk.

It was a delight.  I loved the idea of seeing how many birds you can see in a year.  I wish I had the kind of life where I could just take off to the opposite side of the continent because a big storm will scare up lots of rare birds.  The adventure aspect spoke to my inner 19 year old who would rather be biking to California or hiking the Appalachian Trail.

I didn't expect the characters to be as engaging as they were.  I didn't expect some of my favorite themes, like redemption and living an integrated life.

In fact, the movie was so wonderful, I'd watch it again.  These days, I rarely find myself thinking that.  I'm usually looking at my watch and saying, "How much longer?"

I'm hoping for a calmer week at work.  Otherwise, I'll find myself plotting my own kind of birding get-away.

Pruning and Prepping for Hurricane Season

Yesterday after spin class, I pitched in on some yard chores.  I drug branches around to the curb--it's bulk pick-up week.  And then, I got out the clippers and did some pruning.

Our trees have gotten quite overgrown.  They could be shrubs, if we stayed on top of the pruning, but we'd really like them to be trees.  As it is, they've started looking like scruffy, shrubby, small trees.

As the first hurricane of this season started forming yesterday, although we didn't know it was forming, we started pruning, both to shape the shrubby trees, and to prepare them for hurricane season.  It's a tricky thing.  You want them thin enough so that the wind can move through them, but not so pruned that you've caused damage.

I found it very satisfying to snip and cut, once I got over my fear.  We could see literal storm clouds gathering, so we knew we wouldn't have to devote the whole day to the task.  We could do an hour or two of sweaty work and then reward ourselves with wine and cheese and a movie.

It's also satisfying to do the kind of work where one sees almost instant results.  I haven't had that sensation much this past week.

It has been the kind of week where I often shook my head and said, "I did not go to grad school for this."  I've tried to sort out not one, but two, room mix-ups, which in retrospect, could have been avoided, if I had made a few different choices.  It's the time of the quarter where students realize that they can't continue to goof off indefinitely. I've seen more than one student in my office who cannot come to terms with the fact that they've blown it for the final time. I've dealt with co-workers who have feathers ruffled in varying degrees of severity. I have tried to stay patient, to hide my frustration, to not blow up as people continued to push and push and push.  Some days I've done a better job of being Zen Kristin than others.

I have wanted to believe that we're all working on important projects, but it hasn't been that kind of week.  So, it was satisfying to do some work on a Saturday that had immediate results--today I can get in and out of the car without fighting the shrubby tree; I can walk up the front walk without being afraid of a branch in my eye.  Hurrah!