Moonrise.

Letters.

It started, I think, in the sixth grade. My best friend Kelly and I couldn't stand our science class, or our teacher, and so we ignored discussions of the food chain in favor of mindless, girly chatter. We didn't talk out loud, of course: no, we weren't that bold. Instead, we covertly scribbled onto any pieces of paper we happened to have available. Sometimes we shared one piece and slid it secretly across the table; other times we used multiple pieces, each one folded into an intricate shape such as a triangle (more commonly known as a "football"). Occasionally, we included a fashion design, sketched with care in the margins of the wide-ruled notebook paper intended for academic purposes.

In junior high, it continued. Tonjia, Nikki, Ashley, Amber: my most frequent letter-writers. Again, notebook paper served as the most common medium. Now, the letters most often contained snippets about crushes; Natalia referred to her object-of-desire as "Chocolate" in case a meddling teacher intercepted our communication. I've never had a note read aloud in front of the class; I'm convinced that if I were a teacher of kids, I would never inflict such a punishment. Letters are too personal, even when you're 13.

I still have some of those messages, folded into neat geometric shapes, mostly from Nikki. We bonded over our mutual love of Omar Vizquel. She was infatuated with a Biology teacher. I liked some boy who, of course, liked some other girl. She always said "W.B.S." We always signed our scribbles, "Love, your BFF." I haven't talked to her in ten years, but these vestiges of my early teenage years remain in print.

So, there was note-passing. There was also note-mailing. My cousin (a year and a half my senior) and I used to mail letters, written on pink and flowery stationery, to each other on approximately a weekly basis. We'd include questions so that the respondent would have something to talk about, in addition to any other random tidbits she'd choose to mention. One time she sent me a set of homemade "Full House Trivia Cards." At some point, we started using e-mail instead, but I remember missing the envelopes and postage stamps and stickers-used-as-seals.

I can't remember the last letter I wrote. It was months ago, at least, I'm sure. AIM usage is constant, though, and I actively use two e-mail accounts. However, I had been writing to a lady -- probably in her 80s or 90s -- who helped me with my book a couple years ago. She's apparently suffering from alzheimers, and she's now living in one of those senior living communities. We most recently exchanged Christmas cards. Her message is clearly the product of an arthritic hand; slanted lines, nearly illegible cursive. But there they are: written words, communication between two people made possible by paper and ink.

Now, instead of choosing a style of stationery, I most often select a style of font. Maybe I change the color; emoticons add some more personality. But receiving a real, tangible card in the mail -- from someone who was born when e-mail could've been nothing more than a sci-fi fantasy -- makes me yearn for a tri-folded piece of paper, with ink that probably soaks through to the other side, containing words that were unmediated by a keyboard. Maybe it's because the paper was once held by its author, as he or she transcribed words intended for me and no one else. Maybe it's because I can stow the paper away and take it out again, decades from now, and remember. Love letters are typically bemoaned as a lost art; but sometimes I crave letters, of any type, that will connect me to someone else without wires or wireless.

Is that too romantic of me?

Poem #5

December Digressions

The street is frosted like a cake.
I cross a vast plane of vanilla,
A pioneer,
Leaving the first impressions upon a freshly made bed
Of buttercream:
A Candy Land dream.
When I was six, my world revolved around cupcakes.
It still does;
Sometimes, anyway.
Some things never change:
My love of sugar,
My love of daydreams,
My irrepressible desire to breathe against the pane
And trace my name across a Norman Rockwell winter.

Tess of the D'Urbervilles, by Thomas Hardy

Instead of writing a review of this book, I'd like to provide a few excerpts that particularly had an effect on me. I will offer no context so I don't spoil the story. Instead, here is the text, the simple, unadorned, unanalyzed text, offered in the spirit of a New Critic. It can truly stand on its own.

I should also mention that this book was tragic but beautiful (now that I've read four Hardy novels, I'm not surprised). So yes, I recommend it.

*
"I don't--know about ghosts," she was saying. "But I do know that our souls can be made to go outside our bodies when we are alive."
"What--really now? And is it so, maidy?" he said.
"A very easy way to feel 'em go," continued Tess, "is to lie on the grass at night, and look straight up at some big bright star; and by fixing your mind upon it you will soon find that you are hundreds and hundreds o' miles away from your body, which you don't seem to want at all."

*
Her affection for him was now the breath and light of Tess's being: it enveloped her as a photosphere, irradiated her into forgetfulness of her past sorrows, keeping back the gloomy spectres that would persist in their attempts to touch her--doubt, fear, moodiness, care, shame. She knew that they were waiting like wolves just outside the circumscribing light, but she had long spells of power to keep them in hungry subjection there.

*
They stood, fixed, their baffled hearts looking out of their eyes with a joylessness painful to see. Both seemed to implore something to shelther them from reality.
"Ah--it is my fault!" said Clare.
But he could not get on. Speech was as inexpressive as silence.

From October to November

I have about 20 minutes to write this post. Maybe less. It's like one of those in-class writing assignments I give my students, which they are always so pleased to write. And by pleased I mean, the scribbles on their college ruled paper usually show grudging cooperation rather than enthusiastic engagement. They write it because they have to. They clearly don't want to. If they ended their sentences in prepositions like that, I'd leave them an "end prep" marginal notation. But I don't have to edit my own writing right now. For the next 20 minutes (more like 16, by now), I'm writing because I feel like it. I'm writing because I just dashed into the library and escaped a rain/sleet mixture that signals the coming birth of November.

In my mind, Halloween is a watershed moment. Before Halloween, there may be a day when the temperatures dive into the low 30s, but generally, warm days (or at least pleasant ones) are more common than freeze fests. After Halloween, though, the reverse seems to be true. All of a sudden, the freezing moments outnumber the warm ones, and before you know it, winter has hit you full force in the face. It's that October to November transition -- the dying whispers of autumn that suddenly give way to the howls of winter -- that has the power to fascinate me. It's a changing of the guard, a surrender to the bleakness that ultimately will surrender, once again, to a rebirth.

Just now, navigating my way along the slick sidewalk, I felt an odd rush of excitement as I dodged perilous puddles and felt the stinging wind against my face. The rain-sleet mixture pounded against my umbrella, held carefully at a 45-degree angle to protect both myself and my bag of books. I always feel so protective of my books. Rain and paper is a sorry mixture. Coffee and paper is even worse. But I love the rain. And I love coffee.

And I love feeling the way I just did, for less than 5 minutes, out in the elements and shivering inside my puffy white coat. I was so cold, so nearly saturated despite my umbrella; yet so alive. Strong weather makes me feel close to something other-worldly; closer to God, perhaps.

My fingers are finally feeling less numb. My coat is mostly dry. But 20 minutes have passed. My short respite has expired. Time to get back out there.

...insomnia...

2 a.m. is the loneliest hour.
everyone's asleep but the clock;
its steady pulse sustains me
til sunrise.

Far from the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy

Published in 1874, Far from the Madding Crowd is one of Hardy's earliest novels, and perhaps also one of his most optimistic. I say that with hesitation because much of the novel's content is far from hopeful. Yet, considering the pre-conceived notions I had before studying Hardy's work (others had told me how depressing his works are), I must admit that this novel was less depressing than some of his poetry, and certainly less somber than The Return of the Native (which I will write about in my next post).

The main aspect of this book that I'd like to highlight is the beauty and magical presence of nature. Without re-typing passages from the book (which I'm tempted -- but too tired -- to do), I cannot adequately explain the way that Hardy builds images with words and reproduces the fierce, destructive, yet also peaceful and healing properties of the natural world. The English countryside nearly becomes a separate character as its potent force affects people's lives just as much as human beings.

But indeed, this novel does not focus on nature to the exclusion of humans. Far from it. Simply explained, the story revolves around four main characters: Bathsheba Everdene, a beautiful, proud, independent young woman who is mistress of her own farm; Gabriel Oak, a solid, responsible man whose loyalty and love to Bathseba are as steady as his character; Sergeant Troy, whose dashing good looks are tainted by his suspect reputation and morals (but his attractiveness has the potential to blind others to his faults); and Farmer Boldwood, a middle-aged, well-to-do man who is respected among his community yet keeps to himself and has successfully resisted the temptation to fall in love -- until now.

These four distinct personalities converge in Hardy's landscape. Their emotions and behavior change as rapidly and violently as the climate (with the exception of Oak, of course). Scorching sun gives way to relentless rain; vivid skies transform into dense blankets of clouds, rent by furious thunder. Seasons of growth give way to periods of scarcity, of tragedy, of hope, and of harvest. Of bitterness and of love. Death. Betrayal. Murder. But seemingly impregnable grief finally surrenders, and Hardy's conclusion arguably offers some semblance of promising renewal.

Commenting upon Time and Fate and the role that Chance plays in our lives, Hardy portrays a world ruled by the chaotic whims of an uncaring Universe. He also critiques the Victorian ideal of marriage and cynically views romantic relationships -- at least those that begin a blinding whirlwind of passion, as opposed to those with a more slow and steady beginning. Despite these sobering themes, I found myself enchanted with the prose and thoroughly enjoying the story. I can do nothing other than give it a very high recommendation.

Wise Children, by Angela Carter

I've read several books over the past month, and I simply haven't had a chance to write anything about them here. I'm currently in the midst of two other books, and will soon begin yet another. So, before I get completely bogged down, I want to at least leave brief comments on the three books I've read since August. The first, Wise Children, is the subject of this post.

This novel is an artfully designed, first-person narrative that lives up to its categorization as "magical realism." Blurring fact with fiction, truth with illusion, 75-year-old narrator Dora Chance tells the story of her life. From England to California and back to England again, Dora's adventures as a showgirl, along with her twin sister Nora, are enchanting, hilarious, heartbreaking, mystical, and at times dubious. True or not, every detail adds up to a climactic conclusion. Literally.

Dora and Nora are the illegitimate daughters of a famous Shakespearean actor. Craving and not receiving his love for most of their lives, the girls nevertheless idolize their father from afar. Meanwhile, they amass reputations of their own as they dance their way from stage to stage, lover to lover, celebration to misfortune. The narrative possesses a distinct theatricality that is consistent with Dora's vibrant and eccentric personality; she puts on a dazzling show for readers, inviting them to partake in her show's -- her life's -- pleasures and pains.

I was engrossed from the first page until the last. I think you will be, too.

Poem #4

Sick Day

I'm a hot face against a no-longer-cool pillowcase,
A restless body sinking into a too-soft mattress,
A lost wanderer in an eternal desert, craving
Water, more water,
Until I'm nothing but liquids and fever and cherry cough syrup and frustration.

Digital numbers displayed on my nightstand
Torment my mind as each hour passes,
Sleepless,
Until sunlight meets my ungrateful eyes,
And the morning breeze transforms itself into a relentless blanket of humidity.

I'm 24,
But I'm like a child again,
Craving parental pity and attention and maybe even some homemade, simmering soup.
I have no responsibilities,
I have only this room,
This stifling yet liberating room,
That suspends me between innocence and maturity
And lets me pretend that I can be invisible to the world,
If only for a day.

Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This book has been so heavily discussed, praised, and condemned, that I feel a lengthy description of its basic plot and themes would be fruitless. So instead, I'd like to briefly comment upon the novel's treatment of "love."

First, though, I must mention the prose, which some have criticized as "wordy." I found it to be elegant, well-crafted, and absorbing. A 350-page novel may be considered "long" by some, but this page count is not a reason to attack the book. The lush narrative is, I feel, one of the novel's only laudable attributes.

In fact, this very seductiveness of the prose has led me to reconsider my initial impressions of the novel: that its views of love are not romantic at all, but rather disturbing and repulsive. These initial impressions may sound harsh, but I don't know how else to describe a man who has "622 affairs" (not including his less serious flings), and has sex with a 14-year old girl when he is 70 years old. By no standards can this be considered romantic. Period.

Yet the novel forces us to question that initial shock and horror; maybe Florentino isn't so bad, despite his obsessive womanizing. Maybe he's a romantic at heart, who desires to transcend carnal lusts even as he absorbs himself in them, by maintaining an unflinching spiritual and immortal love for Fermina. The lyrical prose, as mentioned before, as well as the novel's conclusion almost, almost, negate the moral questionability of much of its content. But I cannot go that far. In the end, I'm only slightly moved by the so-called spiritual love that Florentino and Fermina share, and I'm disheartened by the assertions that Marquez makes concerning love.

For instance: "Florentino Ariza learned what he had already experienced many times without realizing it: that one can be in love with several people at the same time, feel the same sorrow with each, and not betray any of them." (270)

I have contemplated heavily on this passage, and yet I cannot identify it as truth. I assume that Marquez is differentiating between different types of love, as he does elsewhere in the novel; specifically, he contrasts physical love (which Florentino experiences in his affairs) with spiritual love (which Florentino reserves for Fermina). I believe that spiritual love and physical love go hand-in-hand; Marquez polarizes the two and places the former on a higher pedestal than the latter. In fact, he goes so far as to portray physical love as a passtime, an act as ephemeral as the relationships that contain it. Thus, the physical body becomes nothing more than a vehicle of fleeting passion, which can be disregarded as unimportant. I cannot follow this line of reasoning, nor do I agree with it.

I do admire Marquez's attempt to present spiritual love as a means for defying and overcoming death. A fear of temporality pervades the narrative, and Florentino's unrelenting desire for spiritual union with Fermina seems to be dually motivated; he wants to love her, and he also wants to establish something eternal. Physical love ends with physical death, but spiritual love can endure into the unknown. "Forever." This is the final dialogue of the novel, spoken by Florentino. Perhaps there is something that can never die, and perhaps that something is love.

There I go. I'm almost seduced by this book again. I'm almost convinced that it's romantic at its core, and profound and beautiful and hopeful and promising. But almost. Marquez fails to convince me because he juxtaposes physical and spiritual love. If he hadn't done that -- if he'd described the two as a perfect union, as a necessary union -- then I'd have fallen for this text, and fallen deeply. Instead, I'm left wading in a shallow pool of tempting, attractive, yet ultimately unfulfilling words.