Is eating me alive. Sheryl asked me during my individual conference to consider why I'm writing about this period in my life. That this is perhaps the key to the essay itself. And I don't know. I had to pick something. What a terrible answer. And I tried to back off and write a travel piece but it's not very compelling. It is also perhaps noteworthy that I wrote this draft while at home on my parents' computer. Whether consciously or unconsciously I'm not particularly at ease with saving an essay on my parents' desktop about sex with girls, sex with boys on Havana's sea wall and drinking until I couldn't tell the difference between the asphalt roof and the night sky. Though my parents are respectful and I'm sure wouldn't open it.
Sheryl gave me a book of women's travel essays called The Unsavvy Traveler:Women's Comic Tales of Catastrophe, edited by Pam Houston. It's good. It's been helpful. It's a collection of fractured travel essays--humorous and not entirely successful trips. Especially helpful was the atrocious piece I read last night from a woman who traveled to Cuba. Reading something terrible always gets me pumped up. At least what I write will be better than that. But a lot of them are good and I'm going to bring the book down to the computer with me and look at some of the intros to get me in gear. Sometimes my trip sounds funny. I didn't like it very much. I felt out of control and generally disconnected. I was a reluctant traveler. But sometimes it doesn't seem funny at all. Absurd maybe, but in a sad sort of way.
On Friday I finished a book called Sickened, by Julie Gregory. It was a memoir of being the victim of Munchausen's by Proxy. It was something between The Glass Castle and Running with Scissors. It was good. It was hard to put down. At the end of the book she said something that stuck with me--that the writing of her memoir was so exhausting. That it was like pulling a hair out of your throat. It was a relief but sometimes once you start pulling you have to just pull and pull and pull. It wasn't a super solid metaphor but I like the visceral feeling of it. Pulling a hair from your throat. Such a bizarre sensation.
And last night I started Lauren Slater's Prozac Diary. It's good so far. What's most familiar is that she's taken Prozac then wakes up one morning and feels normal. For the first time. That it's disorienting. That you feel part of the world for the first time and you understand how "normal" people make it through the day. (Or that "normal" people enjoy the day, it's not simply about "making it through.")
Anyway, it's helpful so far. She said something about opening up her Kierkegaard and Nietzsche books and looking at the underlined portions and feeling like she'd be ok to never read them again. She didn't need to intentionally go so far down into the depths of depression and meaninglessness anymore. That it didn't resonate with her as it did before. She also made me laugh when she described philosophy texts as an elite form of self-help.
Back to the Cuba essay which is at the moment sucking. (The life out of me, and just sucking in general). But I'm sitting with coffee with soy creamer and that's really good so I think I'll begin again...
Monday, April 20, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Cuba--Travel!
New essay direction. Many of you indicated that I was writing about three essays, and I agree. I've decided to make this first incarnation more of a travel piece. I may or not make it topical, including this week's announcement that Obama will lift travel restrictions to Cuba. (Thoughts on whether to begin with this current event or not?):
In the summer of 2002, I spent three months in Cuba. Six weeks studying in Havana and six weeks volunteering at an organic farm in Cardenas, a city just east of Havana. The college required a semester abroad in a second or third world country. Each group spends six weeks in the country's capital city, studying language and culture. The second six weeks of the term is spent volunteering in a rural area—at schools, construction sites and farms. Our group was the first to travel to Cuba; we were among the first Americans students to study in the country for more than two weeks.
Havana, Cuba:
In Havana, our evenings were free and I spent most nights ambling down el Malecón. El Malecón is a wide walkway that runs along the north shore of Havana. The sidewalk is the width of a lane of traffic and follows the sea wall from Habana Viejo (Old Havana) to Vedado, the university district, where we were staying. On el Malecón, the breeze off the sea was cool and salty. The houses that line the walkway are old world mansions with stone arches and balconies; most of them are crumbling, held up by support beams and scaffolding. They aren’t safe, but I’d often see lines of laundry hung across the balconies of these disintegrating structures. Some afternoons, I’d see sweaty teenage boys tear off their shirts and dive off the sea wall, into the choppy ocean.
In our first few weeks in Cuba, we wandered the streets together, a mass of bright white students stumbling over Havana’s crumbled sidewalks and past brightly colored mansions, divided into apartments after the revolution in 1959. Cubans are known for their resourcefulness. They keep cars running decades longer than most—-the country is held together by duct tape and baling wire. Most of the cars on the streets were 1950s Chevrolets or boxy Russian Ladas, imported from the USSR in the 1980s. Downtown we heard camellos shift gears and roar down the main streets of the city. Camellos are a uniquely Cuban creation—-semi-trucks used for public transportation. Passengers ride in the trailers, which have been redone with bus windows and benches. Most of the trailers are painted pink and the trucks spray diesel fumes into the air as they haul passengers throughout the city.
During our six weeks in Havana, we lived in a Baptist Church. After the revolution, what Cubans call “el triunfo de la revolución” (“the triumph of the revolution”), Cuba became an officially atheistic state. From 1959 to 1961 most Catholic priests and Protestant ministers left Cuba for the United States. The new Cuban government was suspicious of church operations, but over time relations between churches and the government have improved. In 1998, Pope John Paul II visited the island, invited by the Cuban government and the Catholic Church.
The church had two rooms upstairs with ten twin beds in each. Before bed we’d change into pajamas. The atmosphere was very much like a sleepover. We braided each other’s hair and traded CD’s to listen to before bed. On Sunday mornings, I could hear the congregation singing hymns in Spanish over the hum of our window air conditioner. Some of our group went to the service, but I didn’t. I was content to lie in my bed against crisp white sheets, the morning sun on my face as I listened to the music through the walls of the sanctuary.
Each morning, the church served French bread and strong black coffee. After breakfast, we’d gather in groups for language study. On the first day of class, the instructors asked us each a few questions. The instructor said to me, “Hola, me llamo Ava. Como te llamas?” (Hello, I’m Ava. Who are you?) I answered with a simple, “Hola, me llamo Emilia. Estoy una estudiante de la Universidad de Goshen en los Ustados Unidos.” (Hi, my name is Emily. I am a student from Goshen College in the United States). My accent was impeccable. After one sentence Ava sent me to the advanced class. I could pronounce anything with poise, but my vocabulary was stunted.
During each lesson, Ava would ask me the same question again and again. I couldn’t answer her because I didn't understand the question. Often, a more advanced student would take pity on me and translate the question, but Ava spoke no English and after three weeks I could tell she was no longer fond of me. I spent six weeks of language study on a single bit of grammar— el subjuntivo. (the subjunctive). When Ava pronounced “subjuntivo,” she drew out the word, “El subjuntiiiiivo.” The sentences all went like this--“Si yo fuera hambre, quiero comer” (“If I were hungry, I would eat”). “Si yo fuera un perro, yo la corteza” (“If I were a dog, I would bark”). After two week, her voice had begun to grate, and I'd grown tired of this confusing tense with an endless variety of irregular verbs.
I’d never like language study, but I was able to function in Havana. I told Cuban friends,“En el pasado, nado. (“In the past, I swim”) and “En el pasado, yo tengo un perro morendo y blanco.” (“In the past, I have a brown and white dog”). Students in the college’s study abroad program normally live with families, but the Cuban government would not allow students to live with families. Instead, on Saturdays Cuban families from the church would take us in for the day. The first Saturday, I spent the day with Jorge. He was in his 50s, with dark thinning hair and light caramel skin. He wore a blue t-shirt tucked into jeans. We didn’t speak much, just smiled at each other as we walked the two miles from the church to his neighborhood. When we crossed busy city streets, Jorge would absentmindedly take my hand in a fatherly gestire as we hurryied across four lanes of traffic.
We stopped at the market near his house. Vendors were set up under a canvas roof selling tomatoes, cucumbers, and pork. Whole skinned hogs hung on meat hooks from the ceiling. Jorge pointed to the cut he wanted. The vendor sliced off a piece of meat with a tarnished steel knife. He wrapped it in a piece of white butcher paper through which blood began to seep.
Outside the market, Jorge pointed to a park bench. The bench was wrought iron and on its left side was a bronze statue of John Lennon which the Cuban government constructed in 2000, on the 20th anniversary of his death. The Beatles had once been frowned upon by the government as a decadent Western influence. Cubans would hold clandestine parties, listening to smuggled tapes with the lights off. But now Castro calls John Lennon "a fellow dreamer," a born rebel who was a constant victim of U.S. harassment. who was a born rebel and a constant victim of U.S. harassment.
Jorge ushered me over to the bench and took my camera which dangled from my wrist. I smiled and wrapped my arm around John Lennon’s shoulder as my little plastic camera wound forward with a low grinding sound. On the way home, we stopped at the Cementerio de Cristóbal Colón. The cemetery was made up of elaborate stone mausoleums, chapels and family vaults. The cemetery looked like pictures I’d seen of New Orleans graveyards, each grave above ground. Jorge sent me to a white stone statue of an angel on its knees, hands raised to the heavens. I tucked my hands in my pockets and smiled broadly for the photo.
In the summer of 2002, I spent three months in Cuba. Six weeks studying in Havana and six weeks volunteering at an organic farm in Cardenas, a city just east of Havana. The college required a semester abroad in a second or third world country. Each group spends six weeks in the country's capital city, studying language and culture. The second six weeks of the term is spent volunteering in a rural area—at schools, construction sites and farms. Our group was the first to travel to Cuba; we were among the first Americans students to study in the country for more than two weeks.
Havana, Cuba:
In Havana, our evenings were free and I spent most nights ambling down el Malecón. El Malecón is a wide walkway that runs along the north shore of Havana. The sidewalk is the width of a lane of traffic and follows the sea wall from Habana Viejo (Old Havana) to Vedado, the university district, where we were staying. On el Malecón, the breeze off the sea was cool and salty. The houses that line the walkway are old world mansions with stone arches and balconies; most of them are crumbling, held up by support beams and scaffolding. They aren’t safe, but I’d often see lines of laundry hung across the balconies of these disintegrating structures. Some afternoons, I’d see sweaty teenage boys tear off their shirts and dive off the sea wall, into the choppy ocean.
In our first few weeks in Cuba, we wandered the streets together, a mass of bright white students stumbling over Havana’s crumbled sidewalks and past brightly colored mansions, divided into apartments after the revolution in 1959. Cubans are known for their resourcefulness. They keep cars running decades longer than most—-the country is held together by duct tape and baling wire. Most of the cars on the streets were 1950s Chevrolets or boxy Russian Ladas, imported from the USSR in the 1980s. Downtown we heard camellos shift gears and roar down the main streets of the city. Camellos are a uniquely Cuban creation—-semi-trucks used for public transportation. Passengers ride in the trailers, which have been redone with bus windows and benches. Most of the trailers are painted pink and the trucks spray diesel fumes into the air as they haul passengers throughout the city.
During our six weeks in Havana, we lived in a Baptist Church. After the revolution, what Cubans call “el triunfo de la revolución” (“the triumph of the revolution”), Cuba became an officially atheistic state. From 1959 to 1961 most Catholic priests and Protestant ministers left Cuba for the United States. The new Cuban government was suspicious of church operations, but over time relations between churches and the government have improved. In 1998, Pope John Paul II visited the island, invited by the Cuban government and the Catholic Church.
The church had two rooms upstairs with ten twin beds in each. Before bed we’d change into pajamas. The atmosphere was very much like a sleepover. We braided each other’s hair and traded CD’s to listen to before bed. On Sunday mornings, I could hear the congregation singing hymns in Spanish over the hum of our window air conditioner. Some of our group went to the service, but I didn’t. I was content to lie in my bed against crisp white sheets, the morning sun on my face as I listened to the music through the walls of the sanctuary.
Each morning, the church served French bread and strong black coffee. After breakfast, we’d gather in groups for language study. On the first day of class, the instructors asked us each a few questions. The instructor said to me, “Hola, me llamo Ava. Como te llamas?” (Hello, I’m Ava. Who are you?) I answered with a simple, “Hola, me llamo Emilia. Estoy una estudiante de la Universidad de Goshen en los Ustados Unidos.” (Hi, my name is Emily. I am a student from Goshen College in the United States). My accent was impeccable. After one sentence Ava sent me to the advanced class. I could pronounce anything with poise, but my vocabulary was stunted.
During each lesson, Ava would ask me the same question again and again. I couldn’t answer her because I didn't understand the question. Often, a more advanced student would take pity on me and translate the question, but Ava spoke no English and after three weeks I could tell she was no longer fond of me. I spent six weeks of language study on a single bit of grammar— el subjuntivo. (the subjunctive). When Ava pronounced “subjuntivo,” she drew out the word, “El subjuntiiiiivo.” The sentences all went like this--“Si yo fuera hambre, quiero comer” (“If I were hungry, I would eat”). “Si yo fuera un perro, yo la corteza” (“If I were a dog, I would bark”). After two week, her voice had begun to grate, and I'd grown tired of this confusing tense with an endless variety of irregular verbs.
I’d never like language study, but I was able to function in Havana. I told Cuban friends,“En el pasado, nado. (“In the past, I swim”) and “En el pasado, yo tengo un perro morendo y blanco.” (“In the past, I have a brown and white dog”). Students in the college’s study abroad program normally live with families, but the Cuban government would not allow students to live with families. Instead, on Saturdays Cuban families from the church would take us in for the day. The first Saturday, I spent the day with Jorge. He was in his 50s, with dark thinning hair and light caramel skin. He wore a blue t-shirt tucked into jeans. We didn’t speak much, just smiled at each other as we walked the two miles from the church to his neighborhood. When we crossed busy city streets, Jorge would absentmindedly take my hand in a fatherly gestire as we hurryied across four lanes of traffic.
We stopped at the market near his house. Vendors were set up under a canvas roof selling tomatoes, cucumbers, and pork. Whole skinned hogs hung on meat hooks from the ceiling. Jorge pointed to the cut he wanted. The vendor sliced off a piece of meat with a tarnished steel knife. He wrapped it in a piece of white butcher paper through which blood began to seep.
Outside the market, Jorge pointed to a park bench. The bench was wrought iron and on its left side was a bronze statue of John Lennon which the Cuban government constructed in 2000, on the 20th anniversary of his death. The Beatles had once been frowned upon by the government as a decadent Western influence. Cubans would hold clandestine parties, listening to smuggled tapes with the lights off. But now Castro calls John Lennon "a fellow dreamer," a born rebel who was a constant victim of U.S. harassment. who was a born rebel and a constant victim of U.S. harassment.
Jorge ushered me over to the bench and took my camera which dangled from my wrist. I smiled and wrapped my arm around John Lennon’s shoulder as my little plastic camera wound forward with a low grinding sound. On the way home, we stopped at the Cementerio de Cristóbal Colón. The cemetery was made up of elaborate stone mausoleums, chapels and family vaults. The cemetery looked like pictures I’d seen of New Orleans graveyards, each grave above ground. Jorge sent me to a white stone statue of an angel on its knees, hands raised to the heavens. I tucked my hands in my pockets and smiled broadly for the photo.
Poetry
This spring I took Poetry Writing with Heather McNaugher. (A warning to fall '09 students--she is a fantastic teacher and generally very informal but prefers to be called Dr. McNaugher. I can't get used to it so I don't talk to her without first making eye contact. Kind of like I did when I was a kid and at a friend's house and wasn't sure how to address my friends' parents...Mr? Mrs? First name?).
Anyhow, it was a wonderful class and I've decided to make poetry writing my main focus, though I still plan to finish my CNF dual focus. I don't know what I'll decide to do for my thesis. Just poetry, a little bit of both. We shall see.
I have always loved the idea of writing poetry, of being a person who writes poetry, but I've never felt confident in my ability to turn out anything coherent or meaningful. But now, all of a sudden, I feel like a natural and am pleased with my own work for the first time in a long time. To focus in on a single event, a single topic, a single thought is so liberating. What I like most about writing is that it often feels like a puzzle--and I must figure out how the pieces fit together, sounding them out again and again until I get a sentence right. In CNF this slows me down, but in poetry this is the whole point. CNF has felt so cumbersome to me lately. Not reading it--I love reading it--but writing it. I hope to join up with you all in the spring of '10. We have such a rapport that I'd rather not lose. But if you want to send me anything, I'd be glad to read and respond. You all have so much say. (And I do too, I just need a break from prose I think...)
Here are two poems I'm proud of from this semester:
Amber Street
Yours is a locked ward
and a guard stands sentry at the gate.
He runs a wand lightly over my arms and legs
in case I've brought something to
spring you out.
I saw you pour the pills
down the drain, watched
them melt into a gluey mess.
And I heard you creep
through our room at night,
snip quietly at my dresses
with red-handled scissors.
You'd fold each dress and
tuck it carefully in my drawer,
cut up like a paper snowflake.
Now you lie in this hospital bed,
curled like a morning glory at night.
I tug the stiff sheet down,
work a knot at the base of your spine,
and think of the night
I passed out on Amber Street.
A late autumn party,
a swarm of kids on the lawn.
You caught me as I stepped off the curb
and crumpled like a shriveled brown leaf.
I smelled of Bud Light and vomit,
but you held me firmly.
You held me as though I might break.
Double Yellow Lines (for Erik)
My blond tangles run wild against your chest
and I finger the dark beard that climbs your face like ivy.
The streetlight casts us in muted yellow
as we lie on blue pillows
in our brand new bed.
I chatter like a friendly child
and you listen like a loving mother as
I chronicle my life in bursts--
When I was young I brought lilacs to my teachers in spring,
stems wrapped in foil, a makeshift vase.
At sixteen I tried hard to swear,
vowed to say "fuck" at least once per day, though I winced every time.
And now I've driven drunk down every street of this town--
over bridges, through tunnels, eyes fixed firmly on the doubling yellow line.
Anyhow, it was a wonderful class and I've decided to make poetry writing my main focus, though I still plan to finish my CNF dual focus. I don't know what I'll decide to do for my thesis. Just poetry, a little bit of both. We shall see.
I have always loved the idea of writing poetry, of being a person who writes poetry, but I've never felt confident in my ability to turn out anything coherent or meaningful. But now, all of a sudden, I feel like a natural and am pleased with my own work for the first time in a long time. To focus in on a single event, a single topic, a single thought is so liberating. What I like most about writing is that it often feels like a puzzle--and I must figure out how the pieces fit together, sounding them out again and again until I get a sentence right. In CNF this slows me down, but in poetry this is the whole point. CNF has felt so cumbersome to me lately. Not reading it--I love reading it--but writing it. I hope to join up with you all in the spring of '10. We have such a rapport that I'd rather not lose. But if you want to send me anything, I'd be glad to read and respond. You all have so much say. (And I do too, I just need a break from prose I think...)
Here are two poems I'm proud of from this semester:
Amber Street
Yours is a locked ward
and a guard stands sentry at the gate.
He runs a wand lightly over my arms and legs
in case I've brought something to
spring you out.
I saw you pour the pills
down the drain, watched
them melt into a gluey mess.
And I heard you creep
through our room at night,
snip quietly at my dresses
with red-handled scissors.
You'd fold each dress and
tuck it carefully in my drawer,
cut up like a paper snowflake.
Now you lie in this hospital bed,
curled like a morning glory at night.
I tug the stiff sheet down,
work a knot at the base of your spine,
and think of the night
I passed out on Amber Street.
A late autumn party,
a swarm of kids on the lawn.
You caught me as I stepped off the curb
and crumpled like a shriveled brown leaf.
I smelled of Bud Light and vomit,
but you held me firmly.
You held me as though I might break.
Double Yellow Lines (for Erik)
My blond tangles run wild against your chest
and I finger the dark beard that climbs your face like ivy.
The streetlight casts us in muted yellow
as we lie on blue pillows
in our brand new bed.
I chatter like a friendly child
and you listen like a loving mother as
I chronicle my life in bursts--
When I was young I brought lilacs to my teachers in spring,
stems wrapped in foil, a makeshift vase.
At sixteen I tried hard to swear,
vowed to say "fuck" at least once per day, though I winced every time.
And now I've driven drunk down every street of this town--
over bridges, through tunnels, eyes fixed firmly on the doubling yellow line.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Prompt: Test IV, Free Write
Three minutes on each of these topics.
A memory of bread and butter:
When I was a kid, my mother and I would visit Charlie's Butcher Block after my doctor's appointments. (Charlie's was by the pediatrician's office, and we were never in the neighborhood when I wasn't sick). We would buy loaves of fresh crusty Italian bread. I often had strep throat or bronchitis when we went to the shop. The doctor's office had a "sick" entrance, to keep the ill from the infants in the waiting room, there to be vaccinated. Charlie's did not have a sick entrance so I always went in while we waited for the pharmacy to dispense the thick pink liquid antibiotic I was always prescribed. I once saw my pediatrician, Dr. Peterson, lunching at Charlie's after my appointment. He looked at me strangely, noted my cherry-red feverish face. He said nothing, but from then on I waited in the car on self-imposed quarantine, wheezing and hacking, while my mother purchased this most delicious bread.
A memory of drinking out of a bottle:
A group of 15 students, studying abroad in central Cuba. An ill-conceived game of spin the bottle. (My first game of the spin the bottle). I was 21, too old for a first game of the spin the bottle--I figured it was now or never. We spun an empty bottle of Havana Club Rum while passing a full bottle of rum around the circle. I had to kiss my best friend David--I could barely do it. I had to kiss my good friend Tim, who'd I known since 8th grade--I squealed uncharacteristically loud and gave him a peck on the cheek.
A hill you once knew:
I grew up on Valley View Drive in Elkhart, Indiana. Halfway through our subdivision Valley View Drive became Hilly Lane. The top of Hilly Lane marks the highest point in Elkhart County, one of the flatter counties in the midwest. I played both soccer and softball from grades 2-11. In high school we filled out a conditioning journal in summer. We were to do one 30 minute physical activity per day. Some days I roller skated. Some days I biked. But most days I ran--straight up Hilly Lane. By the top I could barely breathe, but I pressed on and completed the mile loop through the subdivision, stopping at our beige tri-level with scraggly bushes and a rusty basketball hoop. I was not a great athlete. I liked the exercise, had little to no competitive drive. I liked it when we lost away games. I didn't have to fake excitement; I could quietly do math homework or stare out the bus window. I played both softball and soccer in high school, mostly because it was a cool and prestigious thing to do. Also, for the outfits. On game days, we'd wear our uniforms to school. I loved dressing up in jerseys and knee length green soccer socks, letting everyone at school know that I was one of the chosen few, though really I spent most of my time on the bench. And that was ok. Playing was stressful, crouched in front of third base, not knowing if the batter would bunt or hit the ball straight at my head.
A moment in a library:
I'm in the public library at this very moment. My home computer is behaving strangely--freezing, requiring a restart every 10 minutes. I'm behind a large brown bookshelf, but I can hear a librarian yelling. She said, "Leave now if you can't be courteous!" I have no idea who she's talking to, but I think they are young. (And it's 2:00pm, aren't kids at school at 2:00pm?) Now she says, "Leave now. Come back and start over again tomorrow." I spent a lot of time at the library when I was young. My mom checked out mysteries--at least 4 every week, and the library had a large children's section. The young adult section was also part of the children's library, which I found extremely embarrassing when I became a "young adult." Though I'm certain I was embarrassed by most things from ages 7-oh, 28? (I'm 28 now). I remember taking summer classes at the library when I was a kid. I took a quilting class in first grade--I made a potholder. I took a friendship bracelet making class in third grade--I can still make a thick multi-colored friendship bracelet. Perhaps this will come in handy some day. Girl Scouts met in the school library. I was a Girl Scout for years, but mostly for the sleepovers and snacks. I used to sneak into our meetings after school because I knew it was geeky and didn't want to be outed as a Girl Scout. Our troop earned about three badges and were laughed out of Girl Scout Camp. I sold six boxes of cookies a year (to my parents).
A memory of bread and butter:
When I was a kid, my mother and I would visit Charlie's Butcher Block after my doctor's appointments. (Charlie's was by the pediatrician's office, and we were never in the neighborhood when I wasn't sick). We would buy loaves of fresh crusty Italian bread. I often had strep throat or bronchitis when we went to the shop. The doctor's office had a "sick" entrance, to keep the ill from the infants in the waiting room, there to be vaccinated. Charlie's did not have a sick entrance so I always went in while we waited for the pharmacy to dispense the thick pink liquid antibiotic I was always prescribed. I once saw my pediatrician, Dr. Peterson, lunching at Charlie's after my appointment. He looked at me strangely, noted my cherry-red feverish face. He said nothing, but from then on I waited in the car on self-imposed quarantine, wheezing and hacking, while my mother purchased this most delicious bread.
A memory of drinking out of a bottle:
A group of 15 students, studying abroad in central Cuba. An ill-conceived game of spin the bottle. (My first game of the spin the bottle). I was 21, too old for a first game of the spin the bottle--I figured it was now or never. We spun an empty bottle of Havana Club Rum while passing a full bottle of rum around the circle. I had to kiss my best friend David--I could barely do it. I had to kiss my good friend Tim, who'd I known since 8th grade--I squealed uncharacteristically loud and gave him a peck on the cheek.
A hill you once knew:
I grew up on Valley View Drive in Elkhart, Indiana. Halfway through our subdivision Valley View Drive became Hilly Lane. The top of Hilly Lane marks the highest point in Elkhart County, one of the flatter counties in the midwest. I played both soccer and softball from grades 2-11. In high school we filled out a conditioning journal in summer. We were to do one 30 minute physical activity per day. Some days I roller skated. Some days I biked. But most days I ran--straight up Hilly Lane. By the top I could barely breathe, but I pressed on and completed the mile loop through the subdivision, stopping at our beige tri-level with scraggly bushes and a rusty basketball hoop. I was not a great athlete. I liked the exercise, had little to no competitive drive. I liked it when we lost away games. I didn't have to fake excitement; I could quietly do math homework or stare out the bus window. I played both softball and soccer in high school, mostly because it was a cool and prestigious thing to do. Also, for the outfits. On game days, we'd wear our uniforms to school. I loved dressing up in jerseys and knee length green soccer socks, letting everyone at school know that I was one of the chosen few, though really I spent most of my time on the bench. And that was ok. Playing was stressful, crouched in front of third base, not knowing if the batter would bunt or hit the ball straight at my head.
A moment in a library:
I'm in the public library at this very moment. My home computer is behaving strangely--freezing, requiring a restart every 10 minutes. I'm behind a large brown bookshelf, but I can hear a librarian yelling. She said, "Leave now if you can't be courteous!" I have no idea who she's talking to, but I think they are young. (And it's 2:00pm, aren't kids at school at 2:00pm?) Now she says, "Leave now. Come back and start over again tomorrow." I spent a lot of time at the library when I was young. My mom checked out mysteries--at least 4 every week, and the library had a large children's section. The young adult section was also part of the children's library, which I found extremely embarrassing when I became a "young adult." Though I'm certain I was embarrassed by most things from ages 7-oh, 28? (I'm 28 now). I remember taking summer classes at the library when I was a kid. I took a quilting class in first grade--I made a potholder. I took a friendship bracelet making class in third grade--I can still make a thick multi-colored friendship bracelet. Perhaps this will come in handy some day. Girl Scouts met in the school library. I was a Girl Scout for years, but mostly for the sleepovers and snacks. I used to sneak into our meetings after school because I knew it was geeky and didn't want to be outed as a Girl Scout. Our troop earned about three badges and were laughed out of Girl Scout Camp. I sold six boxes of cookies a year (to my parents).
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Lying + Girl, Interrupted
Part # 1--A reflection on Lying as related to the long list of memoirs I've read on young women's depression/ennui...
Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen was published in 1993. After having been made into a feature film, I'd like to note that the book itself is much different than the movie. The film script uses characters Kaysen has described in her memoir, but the book doesn't contain the action/narrative that is included in the movie--the book is not a cliffhanger.
The structure of the book is interesting. It begins with a photocopy of Kaysen's medical records from the time during which she was committed. (She was committed for two years, from ages 18-20 at the same psychiatric hospital that treated Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, James Taylor and Ray Charles). Copies of her records are interspersed throughout the book and the chapters themselves are rarely more than six pages long. It's been awhile since I've read this book, but having looked through it briefly today each of the chapters/essays could be freestanding essays. The book is a sort of patchwork quilt of bits and pieces (mainly scenes and medical records)that by the end become an accurate picture of Kaysen's life during this period.
The book is full of scene, less reflection. It reminds me a bit of my own writing. Her writing is not ripe with reflection, but she picks the right scenes and in the end her scant reflection is sufficient. Her style/structure echoes her state of mind. She's distant as a narrator, reporting less than reflecting, which is clearly the way in which she was thinking/feeling at the time.
Her diagnosis was borderline personality disorder, but she argues that her diagnosis was wrong. Overall, she reminds me of me. She is simultaneously emotional and numb. She takes a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of vodka and wanders into the street; she's so out of touch with herself that she's not sure why she's done it. She doesn't want to die; it's as though her life is worth so little to her that she doesn't particularly care if she lives or dies. I don't think that she does have borderline personality disorder, but she did see herself primarily from the outside, and this is what I identify with. That obsession with wanting to know what others think of you because you have little idea of who you are. You suspect you are an actor, which makes it difficult to believe that anyone loves you, or to accept any praise at all. More on this later. I'm terrified I have borderline personality disorder, though my therapist assures me that I most certainly do not.
Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen was published in 1993. After having been made into a feature film, I'd like to note that the book itself is much different than the movie. The film script uses characters Kaysen has described in her memoir, but the book doesn't contain the action/narrative that is included in the movie--the book is not a cliffhanger.
The structure of the book is interesting. It begins with a photocopy of Kaysen's medical records from the time during which she was committed. (She was committed for two years, from ages 18-20 at the same psychiatric hospital that treated Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, James Taylor and Ray Charles). Copies of her records are interspersed throughout the book and the chapters themselves are rarely more than six pages long. It's been awhile since I've read this book, but having looked through it briefly today each of the chapters/essays could be freestanding essays. The book is a sort of patchwork quilt of bits and pieces (mainly scenes and medical records)that by the end become an accurate picture of Kaysen's life during this period.
The book is full of scene, less reflection. It reminds me a bit of my own writing. Her writing is not ripe with reflection, but she picks the right scenes and in the end her scant reflection is sufficient. Her style/structure echoes her state of mind. She's distant as a narrator, reporting less than reflecting, which is clearly the way in which she was thinking/feeling at the time.
Her diagnosis was borderline personality disorder, but she argues that her diagnosis was wrong. Overall, she reminds me of me. She is simultaneously emotional and numb. She takes a bottle of aspirin with a bottle of vodka and wanders into the street; she's so out of touch with herself that she's not sure why she's done it. She doesn't want to die; it's as though her life is worth so little to her that she doesn't particularly care if she lives or dies. I don't think that she does have borderline personality disorder, but she did see herself primarily from the outside, and this is what I identify with. That obsession with wanting to know what others think of you because you have little idea of who you are. You suspect you are an actor, which makes it difficult to believe that anyone loves you, or to accept any praise at all. More on this later. I'm terrified I have borderline personality disorder, though my therapist assures me that I most certainly do not.
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