Does a novel about philosophy sound like fun? To me it does, and that's what made me first pick up a copy of Jostein Gaarder's Sophie's World years ago. It took me about a month to read it back then. I recently picked it up again and have been reading a little bit of it each day. I was curious to revisit the book in the light of my more recent studies in philosophy to see how it would strike me this time. It's as much fun as I remember, but I still find it's best taken in small doses. Long passages of the book consist of lectures on the great Western philosophers given by a professor to a 15-year-old girl. While entertaining, it's still a lot to digest.
The structure of the story is ingenious. A young woman begins getting mysterious notes from an unknown person asking her questions like "Who are you?" and "Where does the world come from?" The notes are followed by letters expounding on those questions and explaining what the great thinkers of each age have made of them. The notes and letters turn out to be the products of a professor named Alberto Knox, who has unaccountably taken an interest in Sophie's philosophical education.
At the same time, Sophie begins getting cards addressed to another 15-year-old girl named Hilde, whose father, stationed with a UN battalion in Lebanon, has for some strange reason decided to send his communications to his own daughter through Sophie. The philosophical quandaries addressed by everyone from Plato to Freud take on a life of their own as Sophie and Alberto slowly come to grips with the problems of their own existence and the nature of their own reality.
A talking dog, storybook characters met in the woods, a magic mirror, and questions about free will, God, parallel existences, and just whose story it is anyway are all mixed up in this adventure. It wouldn't work as well as it does if the author didn't have such a good sense of humor and the ability to carry off a lot of philosophizing with a light and easy touch.
One thing that's always amazed me about philosophy is the way any given philosophical stance can come across as absolutely convincing on its own terms -- until you read the next philosopher, who refutes the argument you just bought and makes just as convincing a case for his own point of view. Gaarder plays with this cumulative nature of philosophy, having Sophie fall in with the arguments of each new thinker Alberto introduces her to until the next one in line neatly overturns his predecessor. Sophie and Alberto's conversations are not unlike Socratic dialogues, although Sophie, a pretty sharp thinker herself, sometimes anticipates the weaknesses in arguments and is always willing to express her own spirited viewpoint.
One good thing about waiting so long to re-read a book like this is that you forget exactly how it ends. I remember the finale has a twist and a flourish, but I don't remember what form that takes, so I'm looking forward to the last chapter. Right now, I've got a little over a hundred pages (a sixth of the book) to go. I don't anticipate ever writing a novel about the history of philosophy, but if I did, I would hope it's as lively as this one.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
National Geographic and Me
Yesterday was a nice day in the neighborhood, with spring warmth in the air, buds just about to burst on every tree, and patches of dark grass poking up here and there. There's a flower or two already blooming as well. So it was kind of a shame that I had to spend several hours trying to log into my Genographic 2.0 results (sponsored by National Geographic, folks). Yes, my genealogy research has yielded some fruit.
I wrote a bad review of the Genographic 2.0 product on Friday, and yesterday I got an email that my results were ready. I don't know that there's any cause and effect there, since I'd already been told to expect my results any day. I only wish I'd waited until yesterday to write the review so I could have added that after four months and an unprecedented problem at the lab that required starting over again with my DNA, I had to face a website that just couldn't seem to accommodate a log-in request.
The "Who Am I?" section of my results included the statement, "We are all more than the sum of our parts . . ." I submit that National Geographic, with all its resources, experts, and technology, has been, in this case, somehow less than the sum of its parts, having issues with not only quality control but also customer service and web technology.
I don't care if I turn out to be descended from Zeus: it's hard to feel that it's been worth the trouble, and I don't know if I'll ever change my mind about that. I'm reminded of those psychology experiments I studied as an undergraduate, in which the subjects think the study is about one thing, while unbeknownst to them, the researchers are really after something else. You just think you're here as part of a social interaction experiment. What we're really studying is how much aggravation you'll take before getting up and walking out.
I would have preferred never feeling that I had to do this research to begin with, but when you have questions, it's best to look for answers.
Fortunately, I had the sense not to fight with the Genographic website all day long. I went for a walk and then treated myself to dinner out. When I got home, I struggled with the site for a few hours before getting in and putting the information together bit by bit, in between bouts of getting locked out. So far, there's nothing surprising. I'm in haplogroup H1m1 (same as my cousin), and my profile reads 43 percent Northern European, 36 percent Mediterranean, and 19 percent Southwest Asian. This closely matches the overall population profiles for Britain and Germany. There was no mention of Ireland in this, but they may be lumping Ireland in with Britain.
There's a lot to read on the website about the science of DNA, and I spent last night and today letting it sink in. I haven't studied genetics since high school biology, but it really is fascinating. One of the interesting facts I uncovered is that our family has Neanderthal ancestors (1.4 percent in my DNA), a not uncommon result. I have a slightly lower amount (1 percent) of Denisovan DNA. I don't know much yet about the latter, and apparently that aspect of the science is a bit tentative.
Of course, I know about the double-helix structure of DNA, the twin spirals. Some researchers take issue with attempts to relate the spiral to a labyrinth, but the forms are alike in their inexorable circular movement toward a center. Unlocking the history of my DNA has been a little like moving through a labyrinth. Ultimately, though, it's probably like that for everyone, because the branches and paths of family lines are often surprising. You don't always know what's around the bend with ancestry research.
Now that I have my DNA results, I'm looking forward to tracing more recent connections on the family tree. There are several avenues for doing this, so I'll probably end up trying more than one path. OK, now things are starting to look a bit more like a maze. Fortunately, I have a little experience with those, too.
I wrote a bad review of the Genographic 2.0 product on Friday, and yesterday I got an email that my results were ready. I don't know that there's any cause and effect there, since I'd already been told to expect my results any day. I only wish I'd waited until yesterday to write the review so I could have added that after four months and an unprecedented problem at the lab that required starting over again with my DNA, I had to face a website that just couldn't seem to accommodate a log-in request.
The "Who Am I?" section of my results included the statement, "We are all more than the sum of our parts . . ." I submit that National Geographic, with all its resources, experts, and technology, has been, in this case, somehow less than the sum of its parts, having issues with not only quality control but also customer service and web technology.
I don't care if I turn out to be descended from Zeus: it's hard to feel that it's been worth the trouble, and I don't know if I'll ever change my mind about that. I'm reminded of those psychology experiments I studied as an undergraduate, in which the subjects think the study is about one thing, while unbeknownst to them, the researchers are really after something else. You just think you're here as part of a social interaction experiment. What we're really studying is how much aggravation you'll take before getting up and walking out.
I would have preferred never feeling that I had to do this research to begin with, but when you have questions, it's best to look for answers.
Fortunately, I had the sense not to fight with the Genographic website all day long. I went for a walk and then treated myself to dinner out. When I got home, I struggled with the site for a few hours before getting in and putting the information together bit by bit, in between bouts of getting locked out. So far, there's nothing surprising. I'm in haplogroup H1m1 (same as my cousin), and my profile reads 43 percent Northern European, 36 percent Mediterranean, and 19 percent Southwest Asian. This closely matches the overall population profiles for Britain and Germany. There was no mention of Ireland in this, but they may be lumping Ireland in with Britain.
There's a lot to read on the website about the science of DNA, and I spent last night and today letting it sink in. I haven't studied genetics since high school biology, but it really is fascinating. One of the interesting facts I uncovered is that our family has Neanderthal ancestors (1.4 percent in my DNA), a not uncommon result. I have a slightly lower amount (1 percent) of Denisovan DNA. I don't know much yet about the latter, and apparently that aspect of the science is a bit tentative.
Of course, I know about the double-helix structure of DNA, the twin spirals. Some researchers take issue with attempts to relate the spiral to a labyrinth, but the forms are alike in their inexorable circular movement toward a center. Unlocking the history of my DNA has been a little like moving through a labyrinth. Ultimately, though, it's probably like that for everyone, because the branches and paths of family lines are often surprising. You don't always know what's around the bend with ancestry research.
Now that I have my DNA results, I'm looking forward to tracing more recent connections on the family tree. There are several avenues for doing this, so I'll probably end up trying more than one path. OK, now things are starting to look a bit more like a maze. Fortunately, I have a little experience with those, too.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
Is This a Labyrinth I See Before Me?
Last week I got the news that I'll be presenting a paper on the labyrinth later this year. It'll be my first chance to expand on the work I did in my dissertation and show how it's relevant to society. Labyrinths seem like kind of an arcane subject until you start to wonder why you still see so many of them today. When I say "labyrinth," I'm talking about the ones you encounter in churches, parks, community centers, and other places that are variants on the medieval design and look something like this:
There's been a resurgence of interest in labyrinths over the last 20 years, which accounts for the number of new ones that have been installed all across the United States as well as in other countries. I'm interested in the history of labyrinths and mazes, how and why they reappear in different forms over time, and what meaning they have for us today (which is not necessarily the same as what they meant to people in the past).
Labyrinths go back thousands of years and didn't always look like the one pictured above. There are variants on the design even now, and what's really interesting is the fact that such an ancient symbol still fascinates people. And labyrinths are not just for looking at -- they're for walking in. They're often placed in locations associated with contemplation or meditation -- churches, hospitals, gardens, or cemeteries -- and the setting may be secular or non-secular. So what is it about this design that draws people to it?
I think the labyrinth has a double nature that says something about the dilemma we find ourselves in as a society, at least here in the United States. We're a nation that celebrates the rugged individualist, the pioneer, and the self-made man or woman, but we have come together to form a union. Our democratic processes require that we all participate to make things work, from taking turns at jury duty to turning out to vote. So there's a tension between the individual and the greater good that's never fully resolved. We hold the rights of the individual to be sacred, but we also cherish the idea of "E Pluribus Unum" ("out of many, one"). We're different from many countries that have always believed that the communal takes precedence over individual rights. That's not our way.
In thinking about the visual impact of a labyrinth, I'm struck by its resemblance to a mandala, which Jung considered a symbol of wholeness. You might argue that the maze, which represents a variety of paths and alternatives, is a more fitting symbol of the way we live now than the labyrinth, and I agree, up to a point. But when something is out of balance -- perhaps the tendency for individuals or groups to move in separate directions grows too strong -- another symbol, like the labyrinth, rises from the unconscious as an answering archetype. I think that's what's happened over the last two decades, as the country has grown more diverse and, in the case of politics, more highly polarized.
It's not as if we have to choose between the individual and the community; our society is based on the belief that they serve one another. The labyrinth integrates the opposing forces in an elegant, harmonious fashion. It has a single, highly circuitous path representing a common road that's experienced in many idiosyncratic ways. The heroic, individual path is seamless with the shared path so that there's no contradiction between them. In this way, the labyrinth suggests a way out of the conflict between individual rights and participation in a democracy. A person engaged in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness who remains true to something greater than himself finds he was part of the larger story all along.
There were individuals who helped popularize the labyrinth with their own enthusiasm and explorations into its meaning, but the movement wouldn't have taken hold if the labyrinth hadn't struck a chord with many people. If you're curious, it's easy to find a labyrinth to explore; there are hundreds or thousands of them in North America alone, and unless you live in a remote area, there's probably one nearby. If you're interested, the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator (a joint project of Veriditas and The Labyrinth Society) is a great resource. Just put in your city, state, postal code, or country.
And remember, it's solved by walking.
There's been a resurgence of interest in labyrinths over the last 20 years, which accounts for the number of new ones that have been installed all across the United States as well as in other countries. I'm interested in the history of labyrinths and mazes, how and why they reappear in different forms over time, and what meaning they have for us today (which is not necessarily the same as what they meant to people in the past).
Labyrinths go back thousands of years and didn't always look like the one pictured above. There are variants on the design even now, and what's really interesting is the fact that such an ancient symbol still fascinates people. And labyrinths are not just for looking at -- they're for walking in. They're often placed in locations associated with contemplation or meditation -- churches, hospitals, gardens, or cemeteries -- and the setting may be secular or non-secular. So what is it about this design that draws people to it?
I think the labyrinth has a double nature that says something about the dilemma we find ourselves in as a society, at least here in the United States. We're a nation that celebrates the rugged individualist, the pioneer, and the self-made man or woman, but we have come together to form a union. Our democratic processes require that we all participate to make things work, from taking turns at jury duty to turning out to vote. So there's a tension between the individual and the greater good that's never fully resolved. We hold the rights of the individual to be sacred, but we also cherish the idea of "E Pluribus Unum" ("out of many, one"). We're different from many countries that have always believed that the communal takes precedence over individual rights. That's not our way.
In thinking about the visual impact of a labyrinth, I'm struck by its resemblance to a mandala, which Jung considered a symbol of wholeness. You might argue that the maze, which represents a variety of paths and alternatives, is a more fitting symbol of the way we live now than the labyrinth, and I agree, up to a point. But when something is out of balance -- perhaps the tendency for individuals or groups to move in separate directions grows too strong -- another symbol, like the labyrinth, rises from the unconscious as an answering archetype. I think that's what's happened over the last two decades, as the country has grown more diverse and, in the case of politics, more highly polarized.
It's not as if we have to choose between the individual and the community; our society is based on the belief that they serve one another. The labyrinth integrates the opposing forces in an elegant, harmonious fashion. It has a single, highly circuitous path representing a common road that's experienced in many idiosyncratic ways. The heroic, individual path is seamless with the shared path so that there's no contradiction between them. In this way, the labyrinth suggests a way out of the conflict between individual rights and participation in a democracy. A person engaged in the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness who remains true to something greater than himself finds he was part of the larger story all along.
There were individuals who helped popularize the labyrinth with their own enthusiasm and explorations into its meaning, but the movement wouldn't have taken hold if the labyrinth hadn't struck a chord with many people. If you're curious, it's easy to find a labyrinth to explore; there are hundreds or thousands of them in North America alone, and unless you live in a remote area, there's probably one nearby. If you're interested, the World-Wide Labyrinth Locator (a joint project of Veriditas and The Labyrinth Society) is a great resource. Just put in your city, state, postal code, or country.
And remember, it's solved by walking.
Friday, March 1, 2013
The New Hysteria
It used to be that going for a walk or spending a couple of hours at Starbucks was a routine undertaking. No more! The best way I know to describe it is to say that there just seem to be a lot more people -- everywhere. It's like the worst-case scenario of how overpopulation might someday force us to live.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Take yesterday, for instance: an ordinary, damp Thursday, the last day of February. I wrapped myself up in coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and for a change of pace, took a ramble through the neighborhood instead of the park. Since it was mid-afternoon, gray and chilly, I figured I'd have the streets to myself. It's a pleasant neighborhood for walking, bounded on one side by a wooded area and filled with an eclectic group of mid-century homes. There's generally not a lot of traffic, just birds, stately trees, and quiet houses.
But what had gotten into everybody yesterday? As I cut through the hospital's back parking lot and headed up the first hill, there was a whole procession of cars climbing the rise with me. As I turned left onto the next street and descended a gentle knoll, I continued to see traffic, and it only increased the farther I went. I had to look at my watch a couple of times, wondering if I had mistaken the time. Normally, traffic picks up on these back streets at 4:30 or so, and it was well before then. I couldn't imagine what so many people were doing in such a quiet residential area in the middle of the day. It was like a full-fledged passeggiata, but with cars instead of people.
I can't count the number of times I've been walking in the Arboretum lately and had to stop and wait for someone carrying on a loud conversation to go on past. One of the pleasures of walking in the park is to enjoy the birds singing, listen to the wind in the trees, and hear yourself think -- or so it used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if people didn't seem so aggressively determined to share what they have to say. I was recently on the path behind the garden, strolling toward the bridge over the hollow place, when I heard a young woman coming up behind me yelling breathlessly into her phone, "And then, I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!" I had to step off the path, contemplate the trees, and count to thirty until she was out of sight. Another day, I had to sit on a bench and pretend to be tying my shoe while another woman, who seemed determined not to pass me no matter how slowly I walked, carried on an energetic conversation about blood thinners. I sat and soaked up the sun until she disappeared.
Then there's the local Starbucks. I've spent many hours there, studying, reading, or writing, and it used to be that you expected it to be busy only on Saturdays and Sundays. The crowd is usually a combination of regulars, students, and people from the neighborhood, which is a fairly mixed demographic. Lately, however, it has taken on more the frenzied atmosphere of a cocktail party at full tilt rather than the cafe feeling of days past, complete with ear-splitting conversation, immoderate laughter, and people who seem desperate to engage your attention. You almost have the impression that Andy Warhol is going to show up any minute. Or Truman Capote. Someone like that.
I'm not dogging myself. For a middle-aged girl, I've held up pretty well. But when I tussle my MacBook, power cord, and iced coffee into the only available seat to find myself nose to nose with a stranger looking like a slightly creepy version of Michael Fassbender in Jane Eyre, who apparently has nothing to do but send come-hither signals . . . well, I just start to wonder, that's all. You just don't meet Mr. Rochester in Starbucks (or in elevators or concert crowds either; he's a fictional character).
The next time I sat in that corner, I kept noticing a young woman in an adjacent chair, playing with her hair and staring at me. In both cases, it was just too, well, weird, and I had to get up and move.
On another occasion, I had to endure the carrying voice of a local radio personality who had apparently decided to call everyone he knew while waiting for a dinner companion. One of the rules of engagement seems to be that if someone is going to have a loud conversation, they'll have it directly across from me and make eye contact as often as possible. I notice that a number of people besides me still come into Starbucks with books and computers, and I can only surmise that they've been working mightily on their powers of concentration.
I'm not sure what's up with all these noisy, aggressive, in-your-face people, or why there seem to be so many of them. Maybe it's a form of temporary insanity. It's rather like being in a crowd of cawing, competing crows with bad manners and no concept of the indoor voice. I'm hoping the flock will suddenly take to the air and fly north for the summer . . . I believe there are plenty of wide open spaces in the Arctic. In the meantime, there are always ear plugs.
Friday, February 22, 2013
What's in a Weekend?
O for a Muse of fire.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
I started a new book this week -- this time, it's a novel. It's a story I've tried to write before, without success, but this time, having already written another book, I may be able to bring it in for a landing. I now know that doing something daunting one time can be enough to break up your mental reservations about what you are and aren't capable of for good. Actually, that's one of the themes of the book.
It's not exactly true to say this is my first novel, because I did finish one during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) about seven years ago. That was my first novel, and if it wasn't stellar (or even remotely publishable), it was a fun exercise in creativity. With only a month to work in, your fingers really have to blaze to meet the deadline, and the speed is freeing in and of itself. There's no time to edit, ponder, or second-guess. Whatever comes into your head is what ends up on paper. It's a great way to show yourself that you can produce a story with a beginning, middle, and an end, but it's very unforgiving as far as allowing you an "out" if you start down an unproductive plot line.
I'm intrigued by limitations. Haiku are my favorite kind of poems to write because I like having to get it just so in a few simple words. My new novel has a built-in limitation in that it tells the story of a single weekend. No tortured, extended Proustian remembrances here -- my challenge will be to try to relate how one weekend can change your life, even if it does so in a different way than you imagined it would. That's another of its themes, the disconcerting experience of looking for one thing but finding something else that may in the long run be more valuable.
Patience, ambiguity, the seizing of the moment, the fallibility of the heart, truth, illusion . . . all of these play a part in my story. Actually, it may be more of a fable, something you can read in less time than it takes the described events to unfold. I'll play with it and see where it goes. Unlike some other stories I've started in the past, I already know the ending of this one. I've sometimes thought that not knowing where a story is going can be one of the most exciting inducements to write it, so that you can find out what happens. I think there are times when that's true. This time, though, having the plot sketched out lets me concentrate on how to tell the story, which to me, in this case, is a much more interesting prospect.
Ian McEwan's novel Saturday, which tells the tale of a series of game-changing events occurring in the course of a single day, comes to mind as a literary example of how much life a single day can hold. As I recall, it revealed how a number of seemingly inconsequential events led to completely unforeseen and devastating consequences. A bit of an existential nightmare, that one, but very well told. Mine will be more light-hearted than that and deals with intentionality instead of chance. Rather than leave you shuddering, I hope to leave you smiling.
So far, I've enjoyed the writing. As always, the process of putting things into just the right words is exciting, frustrating, painstaking, difficult, and liberating. I may be at it for a while, but this time there's no rush.
Friday, February 15, 2013
After the Valentines
I like Valentine's Day, but in my opinion, it's more fun when you're a kid. Remember those days when you made Valentines out of paper, glue, and cut-outs for everybody in your class? I do, and in all honesty, it beats any Valentine's Day I've had since then by a wide margin. There was something so innocent about giving and receiving those cheerful red and white handmade cards -- everybody was your Valentine! This was before the boys and girls started to dislike each other as they did from fifth grade until puberty.
In that forgotten time, the battle of the sexes extended mainly to the boys chasing the girls around at recess with giant insects in their hands (in South Florida, where I lived then, big bugs were easy to come by). Nobody seemed to mind it too much, and relations remained civil afterwards. Everybody called each other by his or her first name; that unpleasant habit of last-name address didn't start until later. So what went wrong?
There is something very poignant about the days of hormonal awakening, puppy love, and first crushes, but dang it if things don't start getting complicated then. I don't know how young men see it; I can only speak from my perspective. A host of previously nonexistent problems swim into view in those years, including self-consciousness, insecurity, unrequited love, and acne. How much better it seemed for all to play together freely without being divided by gender lines or competition. And how much better, too, to define yourself in your own terms, to be sufficient unto yourself, rather than mooning over a boy who barely knew you were alive. Or, once you did land a boyfriend, to be worried about keeping him.
I've noticed how much I enjoy stories that feature young heroines in that magical, mythical time in which they remain free and answerable to themselves, battling dragons, solving mysteries, going on fantastical journeys, or just being who they are. I've written a story like that myself. I wish there was a way for girls to hold onto that freedom; it still seems to me that it's easier for boys to retain their independence without defining themselves primarily as someone else's partner, parent, or helpmate.
I'm all in favor of marriage under the right circumstances, but I would never want to give up my ability to enjoy my own company and my own thoughts. I'm good at cooperating but not at being told what to do. And I've seen firsthand how many people still seem to regard an unattached woman as an anomaly, a problem to be solved. That's changing, and it can't change soon enough. An unmarried man with any graces at all is considered a catch; an unmarried woman, even an accomplished one, is often considered wanting.
If you want to see a movie that captures the freedom I'm talking about, see Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild. The young heroine, six-year-old Hushpuppy, resides with her father in a mythical landscape seemingly outside of space and time, although they live in southern Louisiana. Hushpuppy goes to school, but she, and all of the people around her, live a wild, dreamlike existence anchored in a natural world unconcerned with convention. They live and die by their own choices, and although their lives might not suit everyone, they're rich in imagination, self-determination, and joy.
While watching the film, one is hard-pressed to imagine Hushpuppy growing up to become ordinary. You want her to remain extraordinary, because that's what she is. I think we all start out that way, and for a while, before the pressures to conform set in, we're allowed to be like that. How wonderful it would be, in spite of hormones, careers, the need to grow up and pay taxes, home ownership, and parenthood, not to put a time limit on that independence of spirit . . . for anyone.
In that forgotten time, the battle of the sexes extended mainly to the boys chasing the girls around at recess with giant insects in their hands (in South Florida, where I lived then, big bugs were easy to come by). Nobody seemed to mind it too much, and relations remained civil afterwards. Everybody called each other by his or her first name; that unpleasant habit of last-name address didn't start until later. So what went wrong?
There is something very poignant about the days of hormonal awakening, puppy love, and first crushes, but dang it if things don't start getting complicated then. I don't know how young men see it; I can only speak from my perspective. A host of previously nonexistent problems swim into view in those years, including self-consciousness, insecurity, unrequited love, and acne. How much better it seemed for all to play together freely without being divided by gender lines or competition. And how much better, too, to define yourself in your own terms, to be sufficient unto yourself, rather than mooning over a boy who barely knew you were alive. Or, once you did land a boyfriend, to be worried about keeping him.
I've noticed how much I enjoy stories that feature young heroines in that magical, mythical time in which they remain free and answerable to themselves, battling dragons, solving mysteries, going on fantastical journeys, or just being who they are. I've written a story like that myself. I wish there was a way for girls to hold onto that freedom; it still seems to me that it's easier for boys to retain their independence without defining themselves primarily as someone else's partner, parent, or helpmate.
I'm all in favor of marriage under the right circumstances, but I would never want to give up my ability to enjoy my own company and my own thoughts. I'm good at cooperating but not at being told what to do. And I've seen firsthand how many people still seem to regard an unattached woman as an anomaly, a problem to be solved. That's changing, and it can't change soon enough. An unmarried man with any graces at all is considered a catch; an unmarried woman, even an accomplished one, is often considered wanting.
If you want to see a movie that captures the freedom I'm talking about, see Benh Zeitlin's Beasts of the Southern Wild. The young heroine, six-year-old Hushpuppy, resides with her father in a mythical landscape seemingly outside of space and time, although they live in southern Louisiana. Hushpuppy goes to school, but she, and all of the people around her, live a wild, dreamlike existence anchored in a natural world unconcerned with convention. They live and die by their own choices, and although their lives might not suit everyone, they're rich in imagination, self-determination, and joy.
While watching the film, one is hard-pressed to imagine Hushpuppy growing up to become ordinary. You want her to remain extraordinary, because that's what she is. I think we all start out that way, and for a while, before the pressures to conform set in, we're allowed to be like that. How wonderful it would be, in spite of hormones, careers, the need to grow up and pay taxes, home ownership, and parenthood, not to put a time limit on that independence of spirit . . . for anyone.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Look, Hortensia: A Jogger!
Yesterday, like the day before, was sunny and warm: a day that cried out for strolling in the park and soaking up sun. I put on my walking shoes and headed to the Arboretum, where dozens of like-minded people and dogs were already taking the air. No sympathetic magic was necessary yesterday; the people I saw running in shorts and Ts were dressed more appropriately than I was in my turtleneck and down jacket. The sun smiled down, and the air was nearly balmy.
On such a day, I sometimes enjoy just sitting in the sun, idly watching the clouds float by. That's what I was doing yesterday when Apollo showed up. At least, that's who I think it was. I was ensconced on a bench in the middle of the park, meditating on sunshine, when I heard the noise of an approaching helicopter. We see a lot of medical helicopters coming and going around here because of hospitals, but they normally have little reason to visit the Arboretum. This one flew overhead lazily and landed in the field across the street. Thinking some visiting dignitary might emerge, I watched to see what would happen. Either no one stepped out or I missed it, and after a couple of minutes the helicopter took off again.
I mention Apollo because he's the god of science and reason and, by association, aeronautics in general. You really sense his presence when you're around airplanes or walking through an airport, with the superstructure of a soaring atrium above your head. I guess when he's in a certain mood, he might take to a chopper. That seemed to be the case yesterday. It was a plain, dark helicopter that you couldn't see into, perfect for a god traveling incognito, except that it kind of stuck out in the bucolic suburban setting. Every neck was craned skyward as the helicopter proceeded to slowly circle a small area of the Arboretum, coming back at least three times to cruise slowly over the trees.
I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. It doesn't seem like Apollo, after all, to fly so close to the ground, directly over a park with so many people gathered below. A new kind of scavenger hunt, maybe? There are no wild mustangs in the Arboretum, so it couldn't have been a roundup. Maybe it's now legal, with the right permit, to hunt chipmunks from the air. Or maybe rich people now pay to fly over the famous LFUCG-UK Arboretum as they do the Grand Canyon, marveling at the staring locals below.
Feeling it was not really safe to sit below a rocking, nearly stationary helicopter, I got up to walk around some more. The helicopter finally flew away, leaving the blue sky and sunshine intact. Thinking it over on the way home, I decided it might be worth calling the police to see if anyone else had reported the incident or knew anything about it. I was told by the dispatcher that she had "just come on duty half an hour ago" and "didn't know what was going on" but that if that many people had been there "someone must have reported it by now." But when I asked if I could add my name to the report, she said there was no report. Then she said I should have reported it while it was happening. Hmmm. I thought someone was keeping tabs on public airspace other than random citizens, but I guess I overestimated official interest in oddly behaving aircraft.
Not feeling quite reassured by this conversation, I hunted around online for the number of the nearest FAA office. I called them today and received a call back from a gentleman who seemed pretty interested in the presence and behavior of a helicopter flying so low in a crowded area. He couldn't give me any conclusive answers but asked a lot of questions, took my report, and said any further sightings should be called in, too.
So there you have it. Be on the lookout for any random helicopters, especially if they seem to be flying low enough to knock you off a bench. If it were the end of a play, I guess we might suspect a deus ex machina, except no one descended, and nothing was solved, as far as I know. I still like my theory about the Grand Arboretum Tour but can't understand why it's necessary to get quite that close for views of scrubby grass, mothers with strollers, and middle-aged writers. Haven't these people ever heard of binoculars?
On such a day, I sometimes enjoy just sitting in the sun, idly watching the clouds float by. That's what I was doing yesterday when Apollo showed up. At least, that's who I think it was. I was ensconced on a bench in the middle of the park, meditating on sunshine, when I heard the noise of an approaching helicopter. We see a lot of medical helicopters coming and going around here because of hospitals, but they normally have little reason to visit the Arboretum. This one flew overhead lazily and landed in the field across the street. Thinking some visiting dignitary might emerge, I watched to see what would happen. Either no one stepped out or I missed it, and after a couple of minutes the helicopter took off again.
I mention Apollo because he's the god of science and reason and, by association, aeronautics in general. You really sense his presence when you're around airplanes or walking through an airport, with the superstructure of a soaring atrium above your head. I guess when he's in a certain mood, he might take to a chopper. That seemed to be the case yesterday. It was a plain, dark helicopter that you couldn't see into, perfect for a god traveling incognito, except that it kind of stuck out in the bucolic suburban setting. Every neck was craned skyward as the helicopter proceeded to slowly circle a small area of the Arboretum, coming back at least three times to cruise slowly over the trees.
I don't know, maybe I'm wrong. It doesn't seem like Apollo, after all, to fly so close to the ground, directly over a park with so many people gathered below. A new kind of scavenger hunt, maybe? There are no wild mustangs in the Arboretum, so it couldn't have been a roundup. Maybe it's now legal, with the right permit, to hunt chipmunks from the air. Or maybe rich people now pay to fly over the famous LFUCG-UK Arboretum as they do the Grand Canyon, marveling at the staring locals below.
Feeling it was not really safe to sit below a rocking, nearly stationary helicopter, I got up to walk around some more. The helicopter finally flew away, leaving the blue sky and sunshine intact. Thinking it over on the way home, I decided it might be worth calling the police to see if anyone else had reported the incident or knew anything about it. I was told by the dispatcher that she had "just come on duty half an hour ago" and "didn't know what was going on" but that if that many people had been there "someone must have reported it by now." But when I asked if I could add my name to the report, she said there was no report. Then she said I should have reported it while it was happening. Hmmm. I thought someone was keeping tabs on public airspace other than random citizens, but I guess I overestimated official interest in oddly behaving aircraft.
Not feeling quite reassured by this conversation, I hunted around online for the number of the nearest FAA office. I called them today and received a call back from a gentleman who seemed pretty interested in the presence and behavior of a helicopter flying so low in a crowded area. He couldn't give me any conclusive answers but asked a lot of questions, took my report, and said any further sightings should be called in, too.
So there you have it. Be on the lookout for any random helicopters, especially if they seem to be flying low enough to knock you off a bench. If it were the end of a play, I guess we might suspect a deus ex machina, except no one descended, and nothing was solved, as far as I know. I still like my theory about the Grand Arboretum Tour but can't understand why it's necessary to get quite that close for views of scrubby grass, mothers with strollers, and middle-aged writers. Haven't these people ever heard of binoculars?
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