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Monday, November 30th, 2009
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12:55 am - The Problem That Keeps Returning
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The less people you talk to on a regular basis, the more emptiness you see ahead of you.
It gets clearer as you grow older. Something like stepping out of a crowd and into an open area. It's refreshing. You see street lights, trees, and cold grass that's too stiff to sway as it used to. You see your breath, because you are the only one breathing. It's quiet. It starts to get dark.
When it's darker, and you turn around, everyone that used to be standing there has already gone home. Now there's nothing but quiet and stillness. Dirt and cigarette butts everywhere. The streets are empty. Big yellow circles without shadows are perfectly illuminating their designated spots of land. It's just you and a few other people that have hung back.
Winnipeg is as flat as a dime. You can't see very far ahead of yourself in any direction. There's no horizon, just a skyline. Occasionally you may go on an overpass or a bridge and be treated to an elevated glimpse, but after a while of living here, you can't tell one place from another. Cars are all the same colours, buildings are old and new, people dress the same. Trees are frozen. You know that soon you're going to have to change the way you dress when you go out. You'll start having to take off your shoes when you enter people's houses, dry off your socks when you get home, blow into your hands to keep your nose warm.
Nothing will die in the winter. You'll see these trees again next year, these cars, and the same people. And especially the buildings, those gigantic, mysterious labyrinths that hold so many secrets. Who knows what happens in any of them?
But when you're at the center of the city, and nobody's around, it's very easy to lose your place. Especially when you know our city well enough to see that it's the same wherever you are.
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| Wednesday, May 6th, 2009
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4:34 pm - Every day, write down what happened, and write down one thing you remember from childhood
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Today I tried listening to an audiobook version of "Shalimar the Clown" by Salman Rushdie, and also listening to a few albums a stranger had recommended by a band called "The Decemberists" which I enjoyed.
The novel, so far, is pretty similar to a lot of what I've read by Rushdie. It seems much along the lines of The Satanic Verses, switching between different chronological settings, but also like Midnight Children in its interest in genealogy and tracing one's lineage. One fascinating thing is that it will introduce a new character, and then tell stories about earlier generations, moving in reverse chronological order. It's barely noticable though and done in a way that doesn't interrupt the plot.
One thing that annoys me is the similarity in plot devices between it and other novels. For example, there's a young woman whose name is "India," much the way Saleem Sinai was a representation of India in Midnight's Children, and there's even a story about two synonymous births, one of which results in the mother's dying in labour, and the other which goes well (this exact scenario also appeared in Midnight's Children).
It may just be a coincidence that this is one of the only other novels by Rushdie I've read. I actually wish he would do something totally fantastical again, like Grimus, because his style is so suited to that kind of writing, and the supernatural elements, which he almost tries to suppress in his historical novels, are allowed to flourish. I think this air of mystery is one of the things I love about Rushdie, though his eerie blending of childish fantasy with dismal reality is admirable most notably in books like The Satanic Verses.
I'm simultaneously reading a novel called "The Black Book" by Orhan Pamuk, who won the Nobel Prize a few back. The book is about a lawyer whose wife inexplicably leaves him and who becomes obsessed with finding out where she has gone and why she has left, and whether it has some connection to a famous columnist whom they both admire. I am enjoying this book a lot more than Rushdie's and only wish I could have found an audiobook version of it so I could listen while I work.
While reading these novels I am trying to remain conscious of the things mentioned in the book I've been reading -about- writing, to see how they are effective, what devices are used, how much emphasis is placed on certain details. What I've noticed from Pamuk's novel in particular is that the physical details of normal life, which are a constant source of anxiety for me, aren't necessarily something that ought to hold you back. Pamuk writes of the modern world with an allegorical imagination that is familiar to me, and I may find he's one of the writers I imitate the most when I begin writing. The emphasis on psychology, dialogue, and the mundane are all given the dues to which I believe they are entitled, and he actually makes Rushdie seem political and bland by comparison. Since I don't really wish to be a political novelist, this is a source of comfort and inspiration for me.
On the other side of things, both Galip, "The Black Book"'s protagonist, and the author of this book I'm reading ABOUT writing, become lawyers in their young lives before pursuing a passion of writing at a more advanced age. This may be wise for me as well, but it can't hurt to at least try a bit early in life, to see if I can come up with something worthwhile.
I'll apply to law school this year but will need money. Hopefully the bank will let me dig a bigger hole for myself. Though they should... after all, I have a mortgage, a visa, and good credit. Patty, my sponsor and life partner, is offering me her support in her distant, impersonal way (she supports me whenever I happen to mention it).
A childhood memory:
What bothers me is that I had a really good one previously, but am unable to recall it at present, which makes this exercise seem even more crucial to me.
I'll try to remember some detail, then, and expand on it as much as possible. Since I'm currently in the company of my dog, I'll write about my first dog.
He was a "poodle something," and I think we got him from the humane society. White, curly fur, a friendly demeanour. We must have had him when I was very small, because he himself was quite small, and yet I have memories of trying to ride him like a horse. Think of a slightly larger, white version of "Toto" from The Wizard of Oz, maybe. He belonged to my sister, technically, but was a family dog. My sister named him "Buttons," because his eyes looked like little buttons.
My mother worked as a babysitter for most of the families on our streets, watching the kids after school until their parents got home, so as a child my afternoons were always eventful. They were all girls, if I remember right, except for a boy named Stephen who was my best friend at the time. Much of the time we spent, therefore, was sneering at the girlish activities that took place, strange games like a mock-birthgiving ceremony where one girl put a doll up her shirt and "pushed" it out to the encouragement of the doctors. Of course, there were also more universal games that included us, such as lego, physical games like hide-and-seek or tag, and one game in particular involving a piece of furniture that we had.
We had what we called "The Chaise," a long, impractical piece of furniture that had been deferred to basement use for its ungainliness. We children learned that if we sit on the chaise, and pushed our weight against its back, it would tilt over, lifting its long front like a drawbridge. The challenge was to release our pressure just in time to stop ourselves from tipping it over entirely, and we derived great pleasure from the way it slammed down with a great "thump" on the concrete basement floor. We could only play this game when my mother was absent, however, and if she caught us she'd admonish us, with what we perceived to be a common grown-up materialism and reverence for furniture.
On one such occasion, when we were playing our nameless Chaise game, our dog had apparently entered the room and innocently wandered into the vicinity of the raised chaise-front. Nobody noticed he was there until we heard a high yelp that came with the noise of the chaise falling. He was okay, in that odd way dogs always seem to be okay no matter what happens to them, but all of us were mortified that our harmless game had brought harm to our beloved pet.
I don't remember if we stopped playing the game or not, but I like to think we did.
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| Tuesday, May 5th, 2009
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7:03 pm - Every day, write down what happened, and write down one thing you remember from childhood
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What happened today: It was a day at work. I read on the bus there and back. I listened to some music and tried listening to an e-book I had downloaded, but the tracks were in the wrong order so it wasn't going to happen. Instead I listened to some sad music that I love, or some serious music, a little of both. I'm such a downer.
I didn't go visit the goose pond today, which I kind of wish I had. It's always so renewing to see those big strange birds walking and floating around, barking at people, asserting themselves on their migratory route. It's so easy to wax poetical about that kind of thing.
A childhood memory: This is re-hashed from yesterday, but yesterday I felt like pigging out so I got a small blizzard for myself at a nearby dairy queen while on my break. It was mint oreo flavoured, which is the flavour I used to always order at the dairy queen by my house. There's something beautiful about relishing cherished treats from one's childhood. I think most of the milestones of my young life were punctuated with dairy queen in some way or other, since it was so near to my parents' house. Not really a profound memory, I suppose, but it'll do. I can't think of one today.
When I was little I used to fantasize about having super powers, mostly for the purposes of doing evil. If someone got the better of me, I'd imagine what it would be like to have the ability to set that person on fire with my mind, or rip them apart by snapping my fingers, or something along those lines. Like most little tyrants, I guess this means I wanted to be feared, and resented the fact that I was not.
I must not lose my memories. They are my sole psychological asset. If I am the spire of my intellectual development, then I must not let the foundation be weathered, lest I fall to the earth.
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7:00 pm
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A neat little exercise in a book I'm reading about novel-writing. Finish these two sentences with paragraphs:
When they finish the book I want them to feel...
I think I want them to feel the way I feel when I finish a good book... that it was insightful, fresh, interesting, that it brought some perspective to bear on the human condition, which I can apply in my own life and worldview. Ideally, a good book changes the way I view the world, so if my book is successful, that is how it will make people feel. It moved me because I cared about the characters and ended up with a feeling that something profound and meaningful had taken place. Sad is also good, characters crying, being pushed to some extreme, possibilities that go unfulfilled or are unrealized. Also, that I felt a connection with the character, that they eloquently expressed something to which I felt I could strongly relate.
Because to me, novels are...
Novels are miniature experiences that enrich the dullness of the common human life. It's one thing to say they are an "escape from reality," in so many words, but is there something to be gained from such escape? Anything that requires a degree of imagination, after all, is an escape. So, they are hypothetical situations that provide a battleground of ideas, a condensation of the best and most meaningful parts of life. This means I must choose what is best and most meaningful from my own life, and communicate it in a way that rings true for my readers, so that they feel edified in their experiences, more sympathetic, more human. Great books have improved me, so great books have the potential to improve humanity.
Tall order, isn't it? I should probably start small, lol.
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| Monday, April 6th, 2009
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5:35 pm - The Gorilla That Lives In My House
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For the first time in years, I must write, and for the first time ever, I must write for selfish reasons. My brain has come to resemble a child's messy room, full of old objects that are either out of place or no longer necessary. So I must separate the garbage, the dirty laundry, and the dirty dishes from my misplaced treasures, in order to clean them and give them the respect to which they are entitled.
This one begins some time in the past. I was part of a church activity almost a year ago that required me to interpret a chapter from the book of Proverbs. Most Proverbs are basically the same---"be smart, don't be dumb---" but one really stuck out to me: "A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." I suggested at the time that this be interpreted in light of its opposite verse: "but the kindest acts of the wicked are cruel." The contrast of care with cruelty seemed to suggest, to me, that the passage was about pet ownership, and being kind to one's animals. But when have the Proverbs ever discussed this before? I couldn't find an example, but did recall the many portions of the Bible that tell stories of people being cruel to animals, like the man beating a donkey in Numbers until it is given a voice of its own and cries out for mercy.
Like most things that I fail to fully understand, this proverb couldn't leave my thoughts, and the first half of the verse gradually isolated itself from its compliment until I was left only with "a righteous man cares for the needs of his animal." Being an owner of multiple pets, I came to derive a holy pleasure in cleaning my chinchilla cages, feeding them, caring for them. Giving them the benefit of human technology by providing shelter and exercise apparatus, using my reason to determine how to allocate food in moderation, and often acting contrary to their will but always in their best interests. It is delightful to me to see these ignorant, happy creatures living in peace and health in spite of themselves. How little it takes for me to know what is best for my animals, and how easy it is for me to place limitations on them, for the purpose of improving their well-being!
The expression of hatred borne by my dear rodents, which is truthfully due to the unwelcome burst of light that so often accompanies my entrance into their room, makes them appear resentful when they are satisfied. When, however, they need to be fed, or need more water, or are restless, they reach up against their cages eagerly in supplication. Yet I go on caring for them, and love them all the more for the absurdity of their ignorant reliance upon me. I have read that they are more affectionate to humans if you keep only one of them, because they become lonely. This idea saddens me, so I keep them together, and I tolerate their resentment. A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Owning other pets has given me less occasion to explore the meaning of this proverb, but it has still been present, and even more precious for its scarcity. My cat gives me the affection that I do not get from my chinchillas. She loves them too, and I only recently learned that she means them no harm and even loves to run around and play with them. She is more independent than they are, but probably knows better than they do how reliant she is upon me, which makes the proverb ring even truer to me.
When Patty and I were moving from our apartment into our house, we had the problem of having to transport the cat. We didn't have a kennel for her, so we decided I would try to carry her and comfort her along the way. It seems silly that she was so frightened of the car until you consider that, being a Humane Society cat, she must have been under the impression that a car ride means you are leaving your old life behind. We wrapped her in a blanket to protect me from her claws, and during the ride to our new home, she buried her face in my arm in a way that was frighteningly human. It was almost as though she were begging us to keep her. I felt like crying. And all I could think of was this: A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
Now we also own a dog, which wasn't really my choice, but I still love her. Caring for her needs more often that not means the moderation of her desires---the desire to play, the desire to eat human food, and more recently the unwelcome desire to destroy things. In this way, our dog has given emphasis to the word "need" in my beloved proverb.
I care deeply for the needs of my animals. Does that make me a righteous man? As often as I've thought of this proverb, my great wealth of household pets has caused me more and more to notice one troubling aspect of the phrase itself. Let us look a bit closer:
A righteous man cares for the needs of his animal.
It is mysterious to me that the phrase implies not only that the man in question is an animal owner, but that it is one "animal." To say nothing of the historical context of the phrase, it seems likely that people have always been animal owners, not only in agricultural but also domestic settings. So why does it not say "animals" in the plural? Why singular? What is "my" animal?
I have made reference to this animal earlier, perhaps without thinking well enough about it. To my pets, it is the magical, light-bearing ape that provides solutions to their problems, an outlet for their desires, and comfort in times of trouble. It inhabits a home that lacks the cleanliness of a chinchilla cage, permits itself to be polluted by the treats it denies the dog, and lacks any such comfort as that which it provides for the cat. The heart that beats and the organs that function in spite of myself, inside of my body, and the base desires that arise, which I so often fail to keep in check. This organism that behaves so much in its own interest, and is so apparently independent of me but ignorantly reliant upon me. This organism that cries out in disgust when I feed it bitter medicine, or moans with fatigue when I force it to carry on working. What could more truly be considered “my animal?”
It is real to me, more real than ever before, this nameless beast that roams the hallway of my home. But it is mine.
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| Wednesday, January 24th, 2007
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1:42 pm - Ma Gavte La Nata!
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I read Prometheus Bound the other day and wasn't all that impressed. It's basically Prometheus whining to passersby (of literary significance) about how he's trapped. One neat insight into his character is that he's spiteful, and brought fire to mankind at least partially to piss off Zeus (I got the same impression of this from reading Hesiod). He also takes credit for a great deal more inventions, which is either because the myth actually does describe him doing so, or just because he thinks they were the byproduct of his gift of fire and that he is thus responsible for all the genius of humanity (my favourite take on it). He's been called a "Christ figure" because of his punishment, but that's probably just because he was unjustly punished.
I finished Foucault's Pendulum a few weeks ago and I'm still kind of struggling with the ending. The writing style grew very confusing towards the end, and I'm still not sure exactly what happened, especially with the whole scene in the museum. I understand how it all went down and everything, I'm just weirded out by all the supernatural hocus pocus.
current food: Peanut butter sandwich.
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| Thursday, January 4th, 2007
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7:19 pm - a fortunate turn of events
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All through the winter break, and all through last night, I had been having an anxiety attack over the inevitability of getting back an essay that I wrote about William Blake's "The Sick Rose." I've been obsessing over a ton of little problems I could recall in the essay and had decided I'd be happy to get a B on it. Several failures to use MLA properly when citing. A reference to Dante that was totally out of context. Blah.
When he was handing the papers out today, he placed mine face-down and handed out everyone else's, asking to see me after class. Probably to break it to me gently that I did terribly.
It turns out he loved the essay, and wants me to submit it to a conference that's being held this fall about language and communication. Has the whole world gone topsy-turvy? This is the fourth time I've gotten an "A+" so I'm pretty happy, although I'm still totally confused. Also, the word "proofread" in the margin, and a check mark next to my obscure Dante reference (phew!).
At my birthday party, back in November, my parents gave me some really nice illustrated editions of Dostoevsky's works, and I got my eight-year-old niece to read the first paragraph of Notes from the Underground out loud. I remember having such an intense feeling of joy right at that moment, as she asked me to help her with some words and, afterwards, asked me to explain what she'd just read to her. I would really recommend this.
current mood:  relieved
current music: Primus - John the Fisherman
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| Friday, December 15th, 2006
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7:52 am - math question
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what's worse... when three of the medieval lit papers in a second-year course refer to people from the middle ages as "middle aged people," or when two of them refer to the Trinity as "the Trilogy?"
current mood:  busy
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| Sunday, November 12th, 2006
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8:20 pm - interests update
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Added: Franz Kafka, because I loved The Trial (but didn't understand the ending) and will probably carry that over into some further reading.
Removed: Jacob Boehme, because I read him a long time ago and don't really remember what it was he was talking about. Come to think of it, maybe I never did. Crazy mystics...
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| Thursday, October 26th, 2006
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8:05 pm - The king of political attack ads
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| Monday, October 23rd, 2006
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4:23 pm - my second vacation
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Minnesota was pretty bland and unwonderful compared to Banff, but I guess I should have expected that. Most of the places we went were either indoors or artificial (like the zoo), so there was none of the majestic beauty of Sulphur Mountain or Lake Louise.
Instead, we saw another huge mall. Patty may think they're majestic, but I've always thought they're just a lot more walking than a normal mall, and a lot more stupid stores to go to. As she was quick to point out, I actually bought more stuff than she did. We went to a shoe store full of advertisements that showed models from the waist up, which I thought was hilarious. Patty didn't care, though.
We went to a zoo, where most of the exhibits were closed, and it was raining just a little bit. I had a staring contest with a monkey, and saw some animals fighting one another. We also watched a dolphin show (which Patty would refer to as "the highlight of the trip" when I asked her).
Funny as it may sound, I think the thing I liked most about the zoo was that it was full of elementary-school-aged children, who were there on a field trip of some kind. Patty was annoyed at this, because they were so clearly ruining our good time, but to me it made me feel nostalgic of a time when I would have enjoyed something like a zoo a lot more than I really was. It made Patty nostalgic too, I could tell, but she didn't say anything outright. One thing she did say was that we should buy some candy (which we did) and show off to all the little kids how we have money and we can buy things at the zoo (obviously something she remembers not being able to do as a child). The fact that we're adults, and have our own money---something that caused us so much frustration as children---really brightened me up a lot.
So that was our trip to the Twin Cities. I wouldn't go there a second time.
current mood:  blah
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| Monday, October 2nd, 2006
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12:46 pm - epic journeys through sleeplessness
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I've been awake for an awfully long time. Now I have to go to work for a long time.
Thing is, I'm too tired to read on the bus.
When I was a little kid, on long car rides I would look out the window and pretend the drive was a big Sonic the Hedgehog level and Sonic was running really fast and dispatching foes along the way. This took a lot of imaginative power, especially considering I live in the prairies. Sonic sure kicked the pie out of all that grazing livestock, though.
Maybe I'll do this instead of read on the way to work. Wasn't there a "city at night" level in Sonic 1?
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| Saturday, September 30th, 2006
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6:28 pm - why do I dream about celebrities?
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I had a dream that I was talking on the phone with Marilyn Manson. He had an English accent for some reason and I couldn't hear all that he was saying. I asked him if he liked sculpture as an art form, and he answered but I couldn't quite hear him, so I said "I think it's interesting, it's a very hands-on form of expression."
During our conversation I also saw images of the things we were talking about. This was one strange dream.
But really, why Marilyn Manson? Yikes.
current mood:  confused
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| Sunday, September 24th, 2006
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8:00 am - Interests update
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William Empson has made my interests list. Why? Because I didn't have quite enough "Williams" yet, that's why.
current mood: 7 types of ambiguous...
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| Monday, September 18th, 2006
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3:27 am - Clever but Ambiguous Essay Title: Clearer but Less Interesting Statement of Subject Matter
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School's been in for a while, and ah! I'm pleased.
I like my class so far, because I'm having my expectations put backwards. I was pretty bummed out about reading women poets, but then it came to Charlotte Smith. Oh, baby! My new goal in life is to design and publish a fully illustrated edition of Beachy Head. This poem goes right up there on my list of potential PHD Thesis pin-cushions. A guy can dream, can't he?
Speaking of personal lists, 100 Years of Solitude has (since Summer's ended) made one of my lists: my embarassingly huge list of books I didn't finish reading. It's making me think a secondary list is necessary for clarification (in this case, "books I don't intend on ever finishing"). Really, I find it just that unbearable to read.
It's so late, but I gotta stay awake! Frye is bumming me out so I think I'm going to do some internetting for a while and then (probably) top off my all-nighter with some Spenser to keep me feeling cheerful.
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| Monday, September 11th, 2006
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5:57 am - pet peeves
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Pet peeve number one: personifications! I can't stand it when people say things like "society makes us believe that women are inferior," or "racism was the cause of the holocaust." It's scapegoating! And it's lazy. If you want to allegorize, write poetry! Geez...
Pet peeve number two: when people cite the dictionary as an authority! Especially on the internet, when they copy and paste all the little minutiae like pronunciation and alternative meanings! I mean, I admit that language is the battlefield of ideas, but come on... you don't have to try to make people look stupid by showing how you've got dictionary.com bookmarked. What's worse, people do it when they're trying to show off how smart they are, but it just makes them look stupid---a dictionary is descriptive, not prescriptive, and thus it's very possible that some peculiar use of a word is more accurate than that reflected in a dictionary definition.
I mean, come on!
current mood:  groggy
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| Thursday, September 7th, 2006
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2:36 am - Steve Irwin
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Steve Irwin thought this might happen. In fact, he had contemplated it before:"Even if a big old alligator is chewing me up I want to go down and go, 'Crikey!' just before I die. That would be the ultimate for me." I wonder if he feels cheated that it wasn't a crocodile. I realize that sounds insensitive, but I am seriously fascinated with this man's death and I feel like enjoying my right to free speech.
Let's be honest, people. None of us knew this guy as anybody but the guy who would wrestle alligators on television, and had in fact become famous for doing so. To me, that is the man that died, and in the poetry of my imagination, that is exactly what went down. The Crocodile Hunter got along that familiar line of thinking---I might die doing this---and realized suddenly and quickly that he had had it coming to him all along, and it snuck up on him when he least expected it.
I think there's a greek word for it, like "anagnorsis" or something. I might be wrong, but he suddenly encounters the inevitable and has a moment of recognition that is supreme tragedy.
In this way, I do not disrespect Mr. Irwin. I just feel like Sophocles to his Oedipus. A king, who becomes famous for solving a riddle, is himself undone by the most unexpected riddle of all.
current mood:  creative
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| Sunday, August 13th, 2006
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6:19 am - Sleep no longer a problem
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I guess Domo is my fight club or something, because I worked 16 hours my first day and slept like a baby last night. Even though I only slept for about 5 and a half hours, that is...
I'm up and at 'em again this morning, fresh and early at 6:00, ready to pump some gas for folks. And you know what? I am really, really enjoying this work. It's a kazillion times better than market research interviewing.
Plus, on midnights there's hardly anything to do, so you get to read. Rock on!
current mood:  chipper
current music: Swans - The Sound
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| Friday, August 11th, 2006
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2:52 am - Sleep must not be the real problem
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I'm restless and upset because I'm applying at Domo but have a university degree. It feels like the weight of my decisions in life are coming crashing down.
I think I'll pay a visit to the University of Winnipeg career search center for something reassuring.
On second thought, I'm probably just depressed because I'm not in school right now.
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| Sunday, July 30th, 2006
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2:42 am - Brian actually does something
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Today, and tonight, I was at a barbecue at a friend of mine's place that ended up being a minor bible study in his basement. There were a lot of wasps outside, and I spilled mustard on myself.
Once we hit the basement and our numbers thinned out I got to know some of these people, and they're a very nice bunch. Most importantly, I got to speak to a pastor who was present on the topic of prayer and its nature.
Strangely enough, both he and another person I knew at the party agreed that prayer isn't communication with God in the sense of hearing an answer to a question, but more of a pattern of reflection whereupon you come to conclusions based on whether or not they make you feel "at peace with God."
Perhaps I was too frank when raising the topic of prayer, but it's honestly been bothering me. When Christians say they "pray about things," I never know whether or not to believe that they actually do think they are communicating with God, or whether it is something symbolic.
As it stands, I'm feeling not only disappointed, but a little disillusioned. Hearing that the kind of prayer I have now is all that there really is... I don't know what to make of this.
After people were gone we all chatted movies for a while, and then books, and then movies again. I'd do this again if I were invited, but I'm never sure how to tell whether or not I'm welcome at this kind of thing, since I'm such a social failure.
It sure is easy to blog when you have a life outside of the humanities.
current mood: tired
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archaist's journal