#13: No Traveller Returns

Catherine Friesen (right)

My Facebook page has been filled with death lately. Friends have shared posts about loved ones who have died or are assumed to be on the road to that place a little sooner than the rest of us. Catherine Friesen, who passed away on Monday from pancreatic cancer, played Hamlet this past fall. I would've loved to have seen her Hamlet. Catherine was a surprise actor; she had such a quiet, unassuming, and gentle soul, so that those who didn't know her would never suspect that she was one--which made her the best of actors. I only saw her onstage once, years ago, but I could feel that she had become her character. Catherine had truly disappeared.

I had a hard time sleeping last night, so I read Hamlet's famous soliloquy several times in her honor:

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

At the same time, I have learned of (or recalled) suicides, and for a good 48 hours or so, I was really pissed off at those who have chosen to end their mortal coil, while others have been fighting tooth and nail to get a few more days or hours or seconds of this life. How can someone throw away the one surety we have in this world: life itself? It is such a selfish act.

I say this knowing of the demons that lurk in the mind, the soul, the gut. I say this knowing there have been dark times in my own life when I have wondered at the point in seeing one more day. Honestly, the only thing that kept me was Hamlet's confessed cowardice. My own selfishness has kept me from crossing that line, not care for those I'd leave behind.

I was also angry at the people that fill the world with hatred and ugliness who live to be a ripe old age, while so many gentle souls, like Catherine or another of my passed-on New York friends, Linda Hood, are gone too soon. I was angry that the roulette of the world landed on Catherine and Linda but whizzed past those who have no intention to bring love.

Somewhere after those 48 hours, I had a small epiphany: I cannot control what others do; I can only control what I do. I cannot control what life deals us; I can only control how I encounter it. 

I've known these things for years, but I don't think I've truly known them until this past week. And now that I know, I must act accordingly.

I'm still angry that Catherine is gone. I'm still furious about those who choose death. I feel endless sorrow for who've died or will die before they ought. I acknowledge fear about what happens after this breath. Yet somehow I feel more comfortable with my anger and fear.

As Horatio says: Now cracks a noble heart. Horatio honors the pain. Horatio acknowledges the too-soon-ness of the moment. But he lets it go as well: Good-night sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

#12: Tinkle

It's been a lazy day with much to show for it. I've nearly finished a new essay, watched a ridiculous amount of TV (TNG, Gilmore Girls, Keeping Up Appearances, and Brave), and have two full days of leisure still ahead of me. Well, if you don't count the laundry and our promise to clean and unpack the last few boxes that are gathering dust in the apartment on Monday.

The radiator is whistling and tinkling again. I love that sound. It makes me feel warmer just hearing it. I wish our radiator was as cute as the picture I found, but that one probably isn't nearly as warm as ours.

One of Tom's recent Facebook posts was: "Keep trying to remember to notice the wind on my face and the ground beneath my feet." 

I'm trying to keep that in mind myself these days. I want to appreciate what I have, whether I'm out and about or at home. I appreciated my shower more this morning than I had in a long time. Maybe it was because I'd not taken one in a few days, but the sense of the water and smell of the soap nearly shocked me to tears. It was a pleasure to just feel the heat run through each strand. 

#11: Chasing Doctors

I've spent most of the afternoon chasing doctors. I need a neurologist, but I need to get a damn PCP before I can even see a specialist, and the earliest appointment isn't until March 5! So, I've done some sleuthing, and I may be able to get an appointment with my neurologist from the last time I was in New York. Maybe she can slip me a prescription for my anti-epilepsy meds. We shall see. Haven't heard back from the office yet.

Even with the blessing of Obamacare, I still have to jump the usual hoops. I can only see certain doctors. I have to have a PCP who knows nothing about me make the referral. As if I don't know who/what I need! A brain doctor!

#10: Jewish Mark Twain, Again

There's now a program that supposedly can tell you whether your book will sell. Apparently, it is pretty accurate: 84%.

Of course, the catch is, just because a book will sell doesn't mean it will be in the canon a hundred--even fifty years from now. Which brings me back to the issue I referred to in the last post: would an artist/writer prefer fame (however temporary) during her lifetime, or is she content with the slim chance of passing the test of time?

I'll admit, I lean towards the former at times--many times, if I'm honest with myself. Who doesn't want to be on a NYT best-seller list? Who doesn't want to be raved over by Oprah (other than He Who Shall Not Be Named)? Who doesn't want a line of people outside a Barnes & Noble on a hot summer day?

Of course, the ideal is is if you could have it both ways: both current and future fame. Mark Twain has both. Jewish Mark Twain isn't.

"I can't worry about my place in the library," John said in "Roderick on the Line." He just has to sit and create so he can finish one project and start another. I guess I need to take his lead.

#9.5: Jewish Mark Twain

I only intended to listen to "Roderick on the Line" as I washed the dishes, but ended up listening to the entire episode--damn podcast. Once again, John and Merlin spoke to my deepest fears in a comical way. After the dishes were done, I sat on the futon, intending to snap the podcast off and focus on my goal for the day (which is yet to be finished), but I began taking notes instead. They are as follows:

John looking for an assistant to esquire internet to question about if one will be the primary creator (like Shalom Aleichem the Jewish Mark Twain)

“I can’t worry about my place in the library.”

Chinese assistant will “put it on the stack.”

Mac turned us from chopping wood to geniuses to drones on the boxes and wanting to chop wood

I could clarify those notes, but I won't. I hope you listen instead. What caught me, as it catches anyone at some time or another, is the question about whether your work will survive centuries, or will be forgotten. More later. 

#8 & #9: Anxious Anxiety

After class last night I sat in the kitchen while Tom made supper. (Delicious Trader Joe's curry, for anyone who is interested..) We listened to Merlin Mann's "Back to Work" podcast. Part of the podcast was about anxiety. I'm quite familiar with the a-word. I suppose everyone is, to one extent or the other. I woke up at about 2 a.m. and started thinking about the lesson I'd taught the evening before, judging everything I said and did, and wondered if I'd ever get it right.

My teaching anxiety stems from my first teaching job in 2006. I was stumbling around, but feeling okay with the stumbles, since I figured everyone is allowed time to get their groove. One of my supervisors decided to give my class a surprise visit on a day when I was sick and trying to help 30 students prepare for a major test they had to pass in order to start taking business classes. After class, she sat down next to me and basically said I'd done a terrible job and the school wouldn't be asking me back for another term. I, of course, cried. At the end of her proclamation, she decided to give me a "second chance." My "second chance" must've cut the mustard, because by the time I left that school, I was teaching 24 class hours and frazzled. She never gave me any feedback--positive or negative--on my "second chance." I never saw the sheet of paper I was supposed to sign after an observation, and she left the school soon after. I hate that her insensitive behavior still haunts me. I won't pretend that the class in question was stellar, but I was young, inexperienced, and desired only to please, and she took advantage of that. Whether it was conscious or unconscious, I'll never know.

Merlin talked about how anxiety drowns out all but the negative voices. Those negative voices were running roughshod over me at 2 am.

#7: Struggles

I have been writing today--all day--except for the two hour period when I watched Downton Abbey. I don't have a lot to show for it. A lot of sliding one chunk of text to another paragraph, etc. I hate being a writer.

#6: Cather & Austen

I've been rereading Jane Austen and Willa Cather over the past few months. Their works are free on my cell phone book app, and it's easier to carry my cell rather than a book in my already overloaded bag. Plus, if I wake up in the middle of the night and need to read, I can do so without turning on the light.

What I've been fascinated (this time around) with in their novels is how innocuous they seem on the surface, but how many dangerous themes lie beneath. Austen's Persuasion and Mansfield Park are perhaps my favorite. In Persuasion, a fading, unmarried beauty must face the fact that she rejected a man because she is too easily persuaded to do so. In Mansfield Park, a (frankly, sometimes annoying) weakling controls the destiny of an entire family. I'm reading Cather's O Pioneers! right now, and the entire book seems so blithe and light about a farm woman's journey, until sexuality destroys the veneer.

How do they do it? I know what they do, but how are the descriptions and dialogues still so fascinating decades (for Austen, centuries) later? How can a contemporary author even hope to live up to their bar?

#5: Task

Tomorrow's my first class at 32BJ, a property services union that offers professional development classes to its members--including ESL. I'm excited to be teaching again, and also glad that the organization I'll work for is one that has a social justice ring to it. I've been working on a lesson plan, and halfway through, I remembered that this population will be vastly different than the one I worked with at JMU. These are people who are working at least one full-time job, are largely Latino, and a fair number will be my age or older. My old TESOL teacher said: "Judge the task, not the text." Thanks for the advice, Andriy.

#4: Standing

A young woman was killed in Harrisonburg, Virginia, on January 1. According to the brief media account, she was standing in the northbound lane of a VA-42 before she was hit by several vehicles, including an ambulance.

I don't know the whole story, but I've wondered why she was standing in the middle of a major highway. She was an international student, who'd only recently moved to the United States to study English and eventually attend a university. She had crossed an ocean and a continent to be standing where no one should be standing.

When I lived in Harrisonburg, I felt like I was on a treadmill. I was starting nowhere and heading nowhere. In New York, I feel like I am standing and waiting, but I don't know what I am waiting for.

#3: Lesson Plans

Spent half the day working on lesson plans for my new ESL job, the other half watching the end of the Netflix series: House of Cards. SPOILER ALERT! What I love about the series is the causes that lead to effects one wouldn't imagine: falling off the wagon, suicide, lawsuits, realizations that characters may have assisted in murder.

I know it is a fictional story, but all good stories have a nugget of truth in them. It makes me think of the causes I may have had a hand in that have led to effects I'd never bargained for. The idea that if I had not decided to go to EMU back in 1997, I would not be sitting here, tapping away in the Bronx. Where would life have led me? Something better? Something worse?

#2: Smile

Snow is falling. It's freaking cold. I had an orientation meeting at my future job, during which I realized a few things: I've somehow become a professional ESL teacher. I try not to strangle or laugh at young men who want to impress the old folks (including me) in the room. I wonder if I'll ever look at a picture of myself and think I look good.

#1: Hopes

First Hope

I've begun and abandoned other blogs--some sooner than others. I'm trying to force myself back into writing more. I was on a pretty good schedule earlier in the fall, but between traveling and waiting for traveling for my book promotion, I've fallen behind. So, this is a way to keep myself honest: I plan to write a little each day on this blog. Whatever I've written, no matter how small or how poorly written, will be put up by the end of the day.

Second Hope

A few years ago, a psychiatrist told me I have possible brain damage due to a brain tumor and surgery. One of the side effects is memory issues, and a greater risk for dementia in years to come. I have experiences that I do not remember, even though I feel they're significant enough to be implanted in my memory. He told me that keeping a journal would help me retain some of those memories. I've tried to keep journals in various beautiful books, but my handwriting is poor and my writing hand has never been very strong since my surgery, so I usually give up after a few entries. 

This is one way to keep myself honest to my writing life and my brain life--to have the blog and any readers who happen upon this site tell me when I've completed (or not completed) my hopes each day.