listening after dark

First Wodehouse

Love Among the Chickens, three chapters in, favorite line so far (the protagonist rides in a crowded train carriage with an attractive girl, with whom he does not converse, but spends some moments discerning the color of her eyes): "'They are blue,' I said to my immortal soul."

Talk talk talk: Men vs. women

My usual lunchtime routine includes listening to Talk of the Nation on NPR. The subjects vary from sushi to presidential candidates to sociological/psychological topics, like today's: discussion of a study finding that men and women are equally talkative. Of course, this topic instigated plenty of conversation and differing opinions, especially between men and women.

Early on, a caller drew attention to one of the key aspects of the issue: What is "an important topic" or "something to say"? He was saying that the women in his life often call to talk about nothing at all, or just to check in. In his opinion, they didn't have anything to say. But the women probably didn't see it that way.

The main conclusion among the panel and callers was that women talk more about relationships and to feel connected, while men talk to obtain power or get something done, especially in work and classroom environments. But there are some nuances as well:

Morsels

Books books books

Goodreads.com appears to be spreading like wildfire. I love all my reading friends. Are there others out there who share a love for books, words, pretty cover designs? Join us. (Here's me.)

Some misery does not love company

Now that I'm finally almost back to normal after the post-India funkiness, Wes got sick yesterday with pretty much the same thing. He looked just as miserable as I felt when I was really sick. It's also awful to be the nonsick one, because there's nothing you can do (except bring crackers and club soda). But he's recovering.

Work work work

The last three evenings (yes, that included the weekend), I've done some work at home. This is due to the horror that is our biggest special issue of the year—which means for the next two weeks, I kind of have three jobs. But once it's over, work will seem so easy. Until the next horror.

India—wow

Had a crazy dream last night. (What else is new?) I was back in India with my family, but somehow it was like Star Wars and Roman times combined. On a series of islands. And we kept running into my aunt and uncle in various places, and their adopted son kept hitting on me. And also I was being chased by large, scary men...they even followed me into a ladies' washroom (in India, obviously, because it was fairly primitive). And then there were lots of stairs, big buildings and we were flying on hovercraft over the water. All in all, pretty adventurous.

Swans and sermons

The last two nights (while knitting—yay for fall), I've listened to an audio book: The Trumpet of the Swan by E. B. White. You know, the guy who wrote Charlotte's Web? So what if they're children's books. They're still well written and pleasant stories. Trumpet was delightful and just silly enough. But it had quite a few serious moments and a lot of interesting commentary on modern culture. One bit toward the beginning stood out to me in particular. Sam, the book's main human character, is sitting by the pond where the trumpeter swans have their nest: "Sam always felt happy when he was in a wild place among wild creatures. Sitting on his log, watching the swans, he had the same good feeling some people get when they are sitting in church." I know that feeling well. And honestly, I think I get it more often in a wild (or even wildish) place than in church.

This big section below is from the journal I kept last fall during my road trip. I've been re-reading it, since it's been a year now, and a lot of it makes me laugh. Most of it puts me in the same mood I was in while writing. I had a lot of moods on that trip and a lot of time to think. As you can see:

The clouds are yellow in the distance. Yellow and white with blue sky showing through. The sun has just dipped behind them, and there are more boats on the horizon. Now a line of birds, perfectly spaced, like stitches on a hidden seam. Two bald young men are taking pictures of the sky and sea. They are almost twinlike in their baldness, their posture and height, the way they hold out their cameras and squint into the screens. Will we ever reclaim the use of the viewfinder in this technological age? There is something to be said for placing one's eye so close to the camera, cradling it with both hands, shutting out the world and yet letting it in so directly. There is something to be said for the concentration of the viewfinder and for how conspicuous it makes its user. In this age, we are hidden by our obviousness; we draw the world's attention to our hands instead of to our eyes. "Look," we say, "see what I am doing," instead of, "Look, see who I am." What we do is now who we are. And we are glad to be so known, because it is easier and less complex, because we have let ourselves become easier and less complex.

And that is Monday's sermon, brought to you by the letter S and the two bald men.

That was written on Nov. 21 in San Diego, while I was sitting on the beach one evening. I stayed there until sunset.

From my recent reading

"Equality? Equality is the greatest nonsense that’s ever muddled the intelligence of the human race. As if men were equal or could be equal! They talk of equality of opportunity. Why should men have that when they can’t take advantage of it? Men are born unequal; different in character, in vitality, in brain; and no equality of opportunity can offset that. The vast majority are densely stupid. Credulous, shallow, feckless, why should they be given equality of opportunity with those who have character, intelligence, industry and force? And it’s that natural inequality of man that knocks the bottom out of democracy. What a stupid farce it is to govern a country by the counting of millions of empty heads! In the first place they don’t know what’s good for them and in the second, they haven’t the capacity to get the good they want. What does democracy come down to? The persuasive power of slogans invented by wily, self-seeking politicians. A democracy is ruled by words, and the orator seldom has brains, and if he has, he hasn’t time to use them, since all his energy has to be given to cajoling the fools on whose votes he depends. Democracy has had a hundred years’ trial: theoretically it was always absurd, and now we know that practically it’s a wash-out."

—Spoken by Simon in Christmas Holiday, copyright 1939 by W. Somerset Maugham

Isn't it sad that a seemingly spectacular idea—governance by the people—can really boil down to this: "The persuasive power of slogans invented by wily, self-seeking politicians." Because words sway us. Words can tell us almost everything we need to know about a person, if only by the way they are spoken. And nowadays, we rely so much on the spoken word that written words, especially when complex, are often ignored. How many of you read the above passage very carefully?

The legacy of thrift

When I was in San Diego last month for my grandpa's memorial service, my mom spent an hour or so leafing through the big binder in which my grandpa kept his financial notes. Now, I'm not talking about stocks or mutual funds or savings bonds. Those might have been in there somewhere, but what stood out to me were the smaller notes:

$1 for the Salvation Army
$2.75 to Miller Dairy (thrice weekly, for enough milk to sustain eight growing boys)
$25 for a new blender (bought in the 1970s; later given to my parents and still used by them)

These aren't exactly as written in his book, but close enough so you get the point. Everything in the book is divided into categories: expenses; purchases; gifts; loans to each son and other family members; donations; etc. All with the date and exact amount, plus any later dispensation of the item or resolution of the loan.

It calls to mind the similar binder my mom still keeps, with household expenses, divided into groceries, sundry items, food eaten out, gas, loans and major bills. She can look back to 1984 and see how much we spent on food (not much, with a huge garden; connections to the local dairy farmers, beekeepers and fruit-growers; and young children who didn't know what white sugar tasted like).

Raising the stakes: Thanks to Katie

I got an e-mail today from my friend Katie, in which she said that she wouldn't marry anyone to whom she could not apply the lyrics to the song "Drunkard's Prayer" by Over the Rhine. Another friend, Allie, responded that the essential lyrics for her would be "I'll Be Your Mirror" by The Velvet Underground.

The first song that came to my mind was "Simple Life" by The Weepies. Of course, pretty much any Weepies or Deb Talan (or Hummingfish) song is essential poetry for me.

Excerpts from each of our songs:

You're my water
You're my wine
You're my whiskey
From time to time

I'll be your mirror
Reflect what you are, in case you don't know
I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset
The light on your door to show that you're home

I dreamed you first
But not so real
And everyday since I've found you
Such moments we steal
Like little thieves, we rub our hands
We hold our hearts between them.
But will you hear me and know?

Now on to your part: Which song is essential lyrical/poetic matter for you? Do you feel strongly enough about those songs in order to apply them to the loved ones in your life? ("Loved ones" sounds like something out of a commercial for life insurance. Sadly, yet another previously acceptable phrase has been kidnapped by advertising.)

What of the atavists

We've been having Mordor sunsets lately, with a dark bank of clouds pressing the sun down toward the horizon. It sets more slowly now—in protest, I think.

Reading always sets me thinking and writing more than anything. Especially the book I just started: City of God, which my friend Allie gave me a year or two ago. I've been meaning to read it for ages. I even took it all the way around the country with me on my trip last fall, without cracking it open once. But now I've started, and I'm hooked. It's such a different style from anything I've read lately. I've been reading mostly for amusement, for diversion, not for substance. This, however, is some substance, and it's a wonderful change.

I like reading books that make me stop and pull out my dictionary to look up a word. For example, atavist: a throwback to an older or more primitive example of an existing thing. Used in reference to people who want to take religion back to the Dark Ages. At least, I think that's how it's used.

This book has passages like this:

You were once heard to speak,
You Yourself are a word, though deemed by some to be unutterable,
You are said to be the Word, and I don't doubt You are the Last Word,
You're the Lord our Narrator, who made a text from nothing, at least that is our story of You.

and this:

Lights coming on in the apartment buildings. If only I were elevating to a smart one-bedroom...a lithe young woman home from her interesting job awaiting my ring...uncorking the wine, humming, wearing no underwear.

and even this:

Before he can knock the door swings open
And he steps into the darkness of the shadow cast by God.
And the singer has to acknowledge as he steps through the door,
"In His shadow I am nothing, don't even have my shadow anymore."

So I wrote in my journal, briefly, before reading more:

What if prayer is just a way of talking to yourself that is acceptable? A way of getting out your wants and needs without being selfish and whiny?

And what of the atavists?

However unpolished

Suddenly the post I was writing no longer made sense. It made sense while I was sitting at my sewing machine putting the finishing touches on a dress I concocted today, and it even had a point, but I must have lost that point somewhere between doing the hem, adding the lace border and fixing a loose tie on the bodice (I like that word, bodice...it's very proper-sounding, though also risqué, putting one in mind of beadwork and lace, and possibly ripping, done by a well-muscled man in a ten-cent romance novel).

Windows open, quiet evening, silent birds

Sometimes I stop and wonder at the fact that I can write anything, make anything, do anything. A friend and I had a conversation about this some months ago. Do you ever fear that you'll do something completely ridiculous and unprecedented, like stand up in church and start yelling obscenities? Or tear off your clothes and run around nude downtown? Fail to turn the wheel when driving around a sharp corner, and just fly off the edge, through the guard rail, into whatever river or gully or abyss may lie below?

That's how I feel about everything sometimes. I know I would never do those things, but I could. That's the thing. I could. And how easy might it be to travel from this place, this very sensible place, to the place where those things could easily happen? Is that insanity, that place?

I think it's because of problems like this, and because of the way I'm able to create—from pieces of fabric and plenty of thread, without a pattern except the one I create, mostly in my mind and a little on paper, in order to work out the dimensions of the thing, or from beads and wire, with the help of just one pair of needle-nose pliers—things with finished edges, things of unique form and a little beauty (have I lost you? this is where the sentence answers the "because") that I must believe in God, in Christ, in the Holy Ghost, in creation and incarnation, in all those mysteries I wish I could explain, if only to myself. If that logic doesn't make sense to anyone but me, I am not surprised.

I went hiking for a few hours yesterday, and as I was walking along, enjoying the birds and trees and even the red dust, it occurred to me that I might not have been this sort of person: the sort of person who willingly goes out among the trees, alone, and enjoys it. I might have been the sort of person who hates nature or being outdoors and smelling like trees and wind and sweat after it's all over. I can't understand that.

The tulips on my desk continue to open

Once again, I'm trying to write about too many things. My point: I've had lots of time to think this week, and this is how some of it comes out. As I was nearing the end of my sewing project tonight, I remembered that it's good not to let all of it come out. I was composing many things in my head, and I let them go, unwritten, into that abyss. It's a useful place, that abyss. And nearly full, I imagine, except that it's an abyss, and abysses, by their very nature, never fill up.

Maybe this is just my mind trying to catch up with my hands. I've had a creative week: I made some jewelry for a friend to wear as a bridesmaid, and then I made a skirt the other day and a dress today, as well as a blackberry pie earlier in the week. I feel accomplished when I design or create or fix something, just as I feel accomplished when I set pen to paper and write out a poem, however unpolished.

Perhaps I write foolishly, in haste, with too little thought, without needed revision. Perhaps the charms of language, of thoughts made words, work too swiftly on me. Perhaps I too readily accept the temptation of creation.

Collected phrases

Read online:
But extremism is in the mind of the people, and you can't just eliminate it: You must change minds.
—Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf

Recent bumper sticker sighting (Santa Fe is the place for bumper stickers):
God bless the whole world
No exceptions

Heard in last Sunday's sermon:
We can't just "love-bomb each other with happy thoughts" and expect that everything after that will be happy.