Top 5 things I miss

Soulpancake is a fun site that tries to give voice to all of us out there in answering life’s big questions. If you’ve never checked it out, and you like to contemplate the depth of the well, then you should hop over there. (Thanks Shelby for introducing it to me.)

I am not an incredibly active participant. Occasionally I’ll answer a question. Today was one such day. They asked what are the top 5 things you miss. Since most of you do not Twitter me or Facebook me (or any of the other obnoxious, highly entertaining ways people communicate now) I thought I’d post mine here. But really do go and read some of the other answers. It’s nice and personal and somehow encouraging.

In no real order mine are:

• The feeling that everything was mysterious, connected and somewhat magical.
• Time away from technology.
• Guilt free swilling of coca-cola and eating hostess cupcakes.
• Mixed tapes, mohawks, leather jackets and the ability to appreciate punk (i.e being 16).
• My cat Skunk Ape.

Naturally I’ve lost people in my life who would make the list — namely my grandmother, grandfather and aunt — but there are others that miss them more and to put them in a list doesn’t seem fair to them. For the same reason Skunk Ape was almost excluded, but if I had to prioritize my list, she would be the number one thing I miss.

What would your top 5 be?

(Oh, and the series Northern Exposure almost made the list. )

Wednesday’s discovery

This may shock you (or not, really, most of you don’t know me) but I just read “M., Singing” by Louise Bogan and wow, why haven’t I read her before? Or if I have, why don’t I remember?

Now, innocent, within the deep
Night of all things you turn the key,
Unloosing what we know in sleep.

It’s just a sample. But wow. . . must read more. Any Boganphiles out there let me know what to read and where to begin.

Firsts

Do you remember your first day of school? Honestly, I don’t. I do remember being jealous of my brother for being able to go. When it finally turned out to be my turn, I was so excited. Nervous, probably too. But I have vivid recollections of thinking “now I’ll be as smart as my brother”. His tales of all of the things he learned. The school books. The whole world seemed exotic and adult to me. And yet, that first memory of entering kindergarten . . . nothing. I only remember bits and pieces of my entire Jerome Jones experience. Little girls braiding my hair, stressed out teachers, kind teachers, teachers who ate in front of the class. I still don’t think of it as negative and I know I loved having my hair braided (though mom getting the tangles out later was a pain).

All of this is brought up to the surface by the fact a little lass started kindergarten yesterday. The picture before arriving she looks so excited — eager for life and discovery. The picture after being picked up from her first day is a portrait in satisfaction and happiness. It breaks my heart a little to think of the few firsts we have. Especially the good firsts. Zoë is at the age of discovery and the world outside and knowledge and all of the stuff that makes life so incredible and overwhelming and great. I never want to go back and relive my life. I don’t think of youth as my glory years. But for a moment I’d love to be able to feel like that one more time. The first big step outside. The first step towards growing up. I’m not her mother, but I’m so proud that her first response is a smile, anticipation, happiness.

Thoughts on Moby-Dick: or the whiteness of the whale

Last weekend I had a lovely night out with the ladies. Deidra, Mendy, Debora and I congregated at Après Diem and then went to see a lovely movie, (500) Days of Summer, which was clever and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is charming and all in all it was a great evening. A perfect weekend (only made better by my dear friend Will coming to stay with me for his writing and reading whilst away week).

But something happened in the middle of it all. I was posed a question by my dear friend Mendy. “Why do you like Moby-Dick?” She asked. Seems simple enough. However, this is what struck me, no one has ever asked me that. Not only about MD, but about any of my strange passions. I had a Pimms cup, or 3 by the time she asked, so I may not have articulated it well. Then again, maybe it helped me get to the core of it.

So, here they are — a few reasons why I love a sort of unlovable book:

• The characters. Sure, they float around, they inconsistently appear and reappear, but they make their mark. They are ambigous, often, much like me and most people I know. They are flawed. Some of the most minor still reveal a key aspect of our consciousness. It is almost too much to absorb.
• The layers or fragments or pieces or whatever you want to think of them of the book. All the cetology, the bizarre, the bones and the slaughter, the false starts, the epilogue. This is a hodge podge of information, fiction, tales. What do you do with it all?
• The chase.  I love the obsession. I love the obsessions juxtaposed with everything else. I especially love the madness and the way it drives everything in the end. you grow to hate it, you just want it over with. It’s pure delight.
• The sea, the land, the boat and everything they symbolize. Maybe it would just be easier for me to say the symbolism? This novel is rich in the way it can be mined for interpretation.
• And very specifically, the chapters that cover the mother and her calf are so intimate and removed (how does he do that?), the mystery and intrigue of the giant squid and I think, above all, the epilogue. It is one of the finest bits we can come to. It is the calm and reward.
• Not least of all, I had a phenomenal teacher. Dr. Marta Werner drove the class to this point of obsession. I’d never read Moby-Dick before. Honestly, I haven’t read it since (except to excavate some stuff for papers.) She wouldn’t let us rest with the obvious, she made us keep peeling back layers. In short, she drove us mad — and like Pip, I’ve never fully recovered.

Thanks for the question Mendy!