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Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
ocean
It’s 7:30 AM and my alarm won’t ring until 8:00. I just fell asleep four hours ago and I’m not ready for the day to start. The apartment is freezing and I dig deeper into the covers.
Outside, delivery trucks are making rounds to coffee shops, and last night’s empty bottles from Pearlz and McCrady’s are being dumped into garbage trucks, making the morning sound like breaking chandeliers. Inside, one of my roommates is in the living room, listening to a church service online, speakers at full volume, the music too loud and too clappy for falling back to sleep.
I want to yell, to ask him to please turn it down, but the possibility of sleep has already passed. A quick search for a clean towel reminds me I need to wash laundry today, so I skip the shower altogether. My room is a walk-in refrigerator. By the time I’ve dressed, my roommate’s radio squelches, calling him back in to work. The laptop closes, the door opens and shuts, his feet pound down the stairs, leaving the apartment quiet and new.
********
The day has gotten worse. United Way told our company two weeks ago that we couldn’t continue our work in any of the schools they help fund until we buy insurance. They also put a hold on our funding until we start back in the schools, which leaves us with no money, no way of buying insurance, and a frustrating Tuesday off work.
I decided to drive to a café across the bridge to catch up on some reading. The bridge is magnificent, spanning the Cooper River, gaining enough altitude in its two and a half mile stretch to allow cargo ships passage underneath and sun-burned tourists walking in the pedestrian lane a view of downtown’s steepled skyline.
My truck struggles to make it to the top. I just replaced everything there is to replace, and still I’m passed by crowded school busses. Shifting down to third helps but makes the engine sound angry, like I won’t let it take a nap, threatening to explode.
My phone rang. I looked at the caller i.d. to see if it was any news about the insurance. It was a friend I meet every few weeks for a late-night beer, probably calling to see if I wanted to meet up in the next couple of days. Conversations have to be shouted if I’m driving over thirty because of the noise from the wind forcing its way through the gap in the top between the windshield and the roof, so I waited until I pulled in the parking lot to call him back.
He could tell I wasn’t in a great mood, and I told him I just felt exhausted, tired from dealing with funding problems at work, and upset about waking up to a loud roommate.
“Was he banging around in the kitchen?” he asked.
“He was listening to a church service, really loud. And singing.”
When I said that I could hear the bitterness in my tone, like it wasn’t him making noise that upset me so much, but the way he was making noise, the reason. My friend could hear it too, and I imagined him in my room, waking up to a roommate worshiping at the top of his lungs, joining in the song and the moment before he even pushed off the covers.
It took a while for either of us to speak.
“John, I’m scared you’re losing your faith.”
********
In the café, a group of twelve – eleven women and one man – sit crowded around a table large enough for eight, brainstorming an art show to benefit Planned Parenthood. They’re discussing venues and lighting, drawing logos, debating calling the event “Re-nude” or “Re-newed”. The argument is lively, the two words thrown around with the emphasis stressed on different syllables, passed from mouth to mouth like communion. One woman asks if Charleston is too conservative a city to have artists painting portraits of live nude models while ticket-holders drink wine and hold plates of hors d’oeuvres. I stared at my book, flipping pages, my headphones in my ear to hide my eavesdropping.
********
Later that afternoon, I went to a movie by myself, feeling a bit like a failure, like I imagined people who catch a matinee by themselves on Tuesdays often feel. There were only three other people in the theater. One of them walked in five minutes into the show and sat three seats away, like we were friends, but not that kind.
The whole thing – the empty theater, the bag of Twizzlers, the feeling that I should be doing something more important – kept taunting me, telling me I needed more than this, making me want a cubicle with a better – or at least steadier – paycheck. What made everything worse was that the movie really sucked. All I wanted was a distraction, but it didn’t hold my attention at all. Every few minutes I pulled my phone out of my picket to check the time, wondering when the movie would end and if I would feel better or worse if I stayed until the end. I tried to cover the screen every time I looked, but after the third time the guy sitting beside me moved anyway, shaking his head, and sat two rows in front of me, where the blue glow wouldn’t bother him.
********
When the movie finished, it was already dark outside. I wasn’t ready to go home, so I drove over the connector toward the islands just off the coast. To the right I could see the bridge in the distance, the blue-white lights illuminating the suspension cables, such a beautifully arrogant contrast to the cobblestone streets it leads to. I live just on the other side, less than ten miles away, and I still I can’t remember the last time I drove out here to watch the ocean.
I parked on the wide shoulder of the road, facing away from the water, and opened the door, the air cooler and thinner than I expected. I climbed into the bed of the truck and sat down, with my back against the cab and my legs stretched out in front of me. Headlights from the left grew bigger, then passed, and I followed them around the bend until; they disappeared. The dew that had collected on the outside of the cab started seeping through my thin cotton jacket, dampening my shirt and back.
The January sky in Charleston is clear, empty, ink smeared over a waveless ocean. Staring at the Atlantic during the night can make you feel small, the same way sitting in a planetarium alone does, as if at any moment the expanse could forget you existed and your body would stop being a body, would melt into millions of molecules, each one floating off in a different direction. I wished my girlfriend was sitting beside me, our arms crossed in front of our chests and our sides pressing into one another, and thought about how perfect it would be to listen to some music if the radio hadn’t quit working two days before.
Lately, when I’ve been alone, walking around downtown, I’ve thought about all of the people I know and wonder why we’re all so different. I understand that that sounds like a trivial question, like we’re supposed to just accept that we are and move on to solve more important problems – factory farming and finding alternative sources of energy – but I haven’t been able to. It smacks me in the face when I open the door to my apartment and hear my roommates in the kitchen, laughing, making plans, inviting the whole world over for dessert. I stick my head in and say, “Hi,” then walk back to my room, aware that even though we’re friends, I’m the introvert that doesn’t fit in. I thought about it earlier that day, in a bookstore by the café, looking on the shelves and seeing names like Hitler, King, Lincoln, and Bush.
I thought about it then, too, staring into nothing. I thought about how some people understand math and others hear music when they silently read a sentence, how some people are born successful and others never stand a chance, how some believe so easily and others have to question.
That last difference is the one I fought with the most that night, and it made me remember the conversation I’d had earlier where my friend said I was losing my faith. I’m not – I don’t think I ever could – I’m just angry with it.
My book club just finished reading Toni Morrison’s latest, A Mercy, and there is a passage where two of the characters are sitting on a porch. One of them turns to the other and says, “I think God would like us if He knew us.” and when I read that, the book felt like it was breathing, like I was on the porch, like I was having the conversation, and I nodded me head. I don’t tell many people that that’s how I feel, but it is: like He doesn’t know me; worse – that He’s like a girl that grew bored of me; or worse yet – like I’m not one of the ones randomly chosen to be watched over. God seems really far away. I don’t tell people that anymore because when I did they always said, “When God seems far away, we’re the one who moved,” and in my head I punch them in the throat.
That same friend who said he was scared I was losing my faith asked me right after that what I wanted from God.
“What does He have to do?” he asked.
“I just want to feel cared for,” I said, “Like He’s for me. Watching over me.”
“But He is! You ride a motorcycle and haven’t been able to get health insurance for four years, and you’re still here.”
I knew that was true.
“I know. I just wish He made me feel that way.”
A minister friend of mine likes to say, “Feelings schmeelings. Feelings aren’t important. Truth is important.” But he also has a family, and loves them, and whenever he says that I wonder how his wife would feel if he didn’t tell her he loved her, or bring her flowers, or lift their daughter in the air after dinner while they laughed and washed the dishes.
********
The temperature dropped and I sunk deeper into the bed, stared up at the empty sky, then closed my eyes. There’s almost no noise, no city sounds, no nature sounds, only my shoe sliding against the metal bed and the creak of a rusty frame when I shift my weight to find a comfortable position.
It would be nice to sleep in the bed of the truck, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to, because home was more than eight miles away.
I think about it sometimes. About leaving. I’m not naive enough to believe a rural life is easier than an urban one, but lying there, it felt like the struggles that come with the former would be a welcome break. I thought about calling my girlfriend and asking her if she wanted to pack a bag and come with me. Somewhere a storm-heavy Saturday is spent inside a house instead of a closer coffee shop. Where I know fewer people but know them better.
“It would just be nice to have to use an axe,” I would tell her.
I thought back to waking up that morning, and how I was still mad about it, how relationships of any kind – with God or roommates - are really hard for me. Outside of my family, there are only two people in my life I’ve kept up with for more than five years.
I think I’m getting better at them, like some of my friends now - Jana, Nicole, Clell, Ahren – are all people that would drive through several states for a weekend visit long after we’ve all gone our separate ways. I can look at them and say that we are close.
There is a part in the Bible referencing Jesus that says he is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. That’s been hard for me to believe. When I was in the truck I thought about that, trying to really understand what that’s like. I don’t really have a reference point for that; I grew up without a brother, but I do have an older sister, and when I was twenty-five, the day after finding out my wife had been having affairs, I sat on the floor of her bedroom closet, weeping, hiding from my nephews. She walked in and sat down beside me, beside a pile of shoes, and didn’t say anything, but started to cry too.
Maybe it’s like that.
Maybe whether I’m here or there He remains, showing up in inky nights, girlfriend’s kisses, sister’s tears. I wonder when the day will come when I feel Him, when I look back and feel crazy for ever wanting to leave, to run, to walk away. When will I feel the unmistakable grace, where will I be, where will we be, where will we be?
Outside, delivery trucks are making rounds to coffee shops, and last night’s empty bottles from Pearlz and McCrady’s are being dumped into garbage trucks, making the morning sound like breaking chandeliers. Inside, one of my roommates is in the living room, listening to a church service online, speakers at full volume, the music too loud and too clappy for falling back to sleep.
I want to yell, to ask him to please turn it down, but the possibility of sleep has already passed. A quick search for a clean towel reminds me I need to wash laundry today, so I skip the shower altogether. My room is a walk-in refrigerator. By the time I’ve dressed, my roommate’s radio squelches, calling him back in to work. The laptop closes, the door opens and shuts, his feet pound down the stairs, leaving the apartment quiet and new.
********
The day has gotten worse. United Way told our company two weeks ago that we couldn’t continue our work in any of the schools they help fund until we buy insurance. They also put a hold on our funding until we start back in the schools, which leaves us with no money, no way of buying insurance, and a frustrating Tuesday off work.
I decided to drive to a café across the bridge to catch up on some reading. The bridge is magnificent, spanning the Cooper River, gaining enough altitude in its two and a half mile stretch to allow cargo ships passage underneath and sun-burned tourists walking in the pedestrian lane a view of downtown’s steepled skyline.
My truck struggles to make it to the top. I just replaced everything there is to replace, and still I’m passed by crowded school busses. Shifting down to third helps but makes the engine sound angry, like I won’t let it take a nap, threatening to explode.
My phone rang. I looked at the caller i.d. to see if it was any news about the insurance. It was a friend I meet every few weeks for a late-night beer, probably calling to see if I wanted to meet up in the next couple of days. Conversations have to be shouted if I’m driving over thirty because of the noise from the wind forcing its way through the gap in the top between the windshield and the roof, so I waited until I pulled in the parking lot to call him back.
He could tell I wasn’t in a great mood, and I told him I just felt exhausted, tired from dealing with funding problems at work, and upset about waking up to a loud roommate.
“Was he banging around in the kitchen?” he asked.
“He was listening to a church service, really loud. And singing.”
When I said that I could hear the bitterness in my tone, like it wasn’t him making noise that upset me so much, but the way he was making noise, the reason. My friend could hear it too, and I imagined him in my room, waking up to a roommate worshiping at the top of his lungs, joining in the song and the moment before he even pushed off the covers.
It took a while for either of us to speak.
“John, I’m scared you’re losing your faith.”
********
In the café, a group of twelve – eleven women and one man – sit crowded around a table large enough for eight, brainstorming an art show to benefit Planned Parenthood. They’re discussing venues and lighting, drawing logos, debating calling the event “Re-nude” or “Re-newed”. The argument is lively, the two words thrown around with the emphasis stressed on different syllables, passed from mouth to mouth like communion. One woman asks if Charleston is too conservative a city to have artists painting portraits of live nude models while ticket-holders drink wine and hold plates of hors d’oeuvres. I stared at my book, flipping pages, my headphones in my ear to hide my eavesdropping.
********
Later that afternoon, I went to a movie by myself, feeling a bit like a failure, like I imagined people who catch a matinee by themselves on Tuesdays often feel. There were only three other people in the theater. One of them walked in five minutes into the show and sat three seats away, like we were friends, but not that kind.
The whole thing – the empty theater, the bag of Twizzlers, the feeling that I should be doing something more important – kept taunting me, telling me I needed more than this, making me want a cubicle with a better – or at least steadier – paycheck. What made everything worse was that the movie really sucked. All I wanted was a distraction, but it didn’t hold my attention at all. Every few minutes I pulled my phone out of my picket to check the time, wondering when the movie would end and if I would feel better or worse if I stayed until the end. I tried to cover the screen every time I looked, but after the third time the guy sitting beside me moved anyway, shaking his head, and sat two rows in front of me, where the blue glow wouldn’t bother him.
********
When the movie finished, it was already dark outside. I wasn’t ready to go home, so I drove over the connector toward the islands just off the coast. To the right I could see the bridge in the distance, the blue-white lights illuminating the suspension cables, such a beautifully arrogant contrast to the cobblestone streets it leads to. I live just on the other side, less than ten miles away, and I still I can’t remember the last time I drove out here to watch the ocean.
I parked on the wide shoulder of the road, facing away from the water, and opened the door, the air cooler and thinner than I expected. I climbed into the bed of the truck and sat down, with my back against the cab and my legs stretched out in front of me. Headlights from the left grew bigger, then passed, and I followed them around the bend until; they disappeared. The dew that had collected on the outside of the cab started seeping through my thin cotton jacket, dampening my shirt and back.
The January sky in Charleston is clear, empty, ink smeared over a waveless ocean. Staring at the Atlantic during the night can make you feel small, the same way sitting in a planetarium alone does, as if at any moment the expanse could forget you existed and your body would stop being a body, would melt into millions of molecules, each one floating off in a different direction. I wished my girlfriend was sitting beside me, our arms crossed in front of our chests and our sides pressing into one another, and thought about how perfect it would be to listen to some music if the radio hadn’t quit working two days before.
Lately, when I’ve been alone, walking around downtown, I’ve thought about all of the people I know and wonder why we’re all so different. I understand that that sounds like a trivial question, like we’re supposed to just accept that we are and move on to solve more important problems – factory farming and finding alternative sources of energy – but I haven’t been able to. It smacks me in the face when I open the door to my apartment and hear my roommates in the kitchen, laughing, making plans, inviting the whole world over for dessert. I stick my head in and say, “Hi,” then walk back to my room, aware that even though we’re friends, I’m the introvert that doesn’t fit in. I thought about it earlier that day, in a bookstore by the café, looking on the shelves and seeing names like Hitler, King, Lincoln, and Bush.
I thought about it then, too, staring into nothing. I thought about how some people understand math and others hear music when they silently read a sentence, how some people are born successful and others never stand a chance, how some believe so easily and others have to question.
That last difference is the one I fought with the most that night, and it made me remember the conversation I’d had earlier where my friend said I was losing my faith. I’m not – I don’t think I ever could – I’m just angry with it.
My book club just finished reading Toni Morrison’s latest, A Mercy, and there is a passage where two of the characters are sitting on a porch. One of them turns to the other and says, “I think God would like us if He knew us.” and when I read that, the book felt like it was breathing, like I was on the porch, like I was having the conversation, and I nodded me head. I don’t tell many people that that’s how I feel, but it is: like He doesn’t know me; worse – that He’s like a girl that grew bored of me; or worse yet – like I’m not one of the ones randomly chosen to be watched over. God seems really far away. I don’t tell people that anymore because when I did they always said, “When God seems far away, we’re the one who moved,” and in my head I punch them in the throat.
That same friend who said he was scared I was losing my faith asked me right after that what I wanted from God.
“What does He have to do?” he asked.
“I just want to feel cared for,” I said, “Like He’s for me. Watching over me.”
“But He is! You ride a motorcycle and haven’t been able to get health insurance for four years, and you’re still here.”
I knew that was true.
“I know. I just wish He made me feel that way.”
A minister friend of mine likes to say, “Feelings schmeelings. Feelings aren’t important. Truth is important.” But he also has a family, and loves them, and whenever he says that I wonder how his wife would feel if he didn’t tell her he loved her, or bring her flowers, or lift their daughter in the air after dinner while they laughed and washed the dishes.
********
The temperature dropped and I sunk deeper into the bed, stared up at the empty sky, then closed my eyes. There’s almost no noise, no city sounds, no nature sounds, only my shoe sliding against the metal bed and the creak of a rusty frame when I shift my weight to find a comfortable position.
It would be nice to sleep in the bed of the truck, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to, because home was more than eight miles away.
I think about it sometimes. About leaving. I’m not naive enough to believe a rural life is easier than an urban one, but lying there, it felt like the struggles that come with the former would be a welcome break. I thought about calling my girlfriend and asking her if she wanted to pack a bag and come with me. Somewhere a storm-heavy Saturday is spent inside a house instead of a closer coffee shop. Where I know fewer people but know them better.
“It would just be nice to have to use an axe,” I would tell her.
I thought back to waking up that morning, and how I was still mad about it, how relationships of any kind – with God or roommates - are really hard for me. Outside of my family, there are only two people in my life I’ve kept up with for more than five years.
I think I’m getting better at them, like some of my friends now - Jana, Nicole, Clell, Ahren – are all people that would drive through several states for a weekend visit long after we’ve all gone our separate ways. I can look at them and say that we are close.
There is a part in the Bible referencing Jesus that says he is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. That’s been hard for me to believe. When I was in the truck I thought about that, trying to really understand what that’s like. I don’t really have a reference point for that; I grew up without a brother, but I do have an older sister, and when I was twenty-five, the day after finding out my wife had been having affairs, I sat on the floor of her bedroom closet, weeping, hiding from my nephews. She walked in and sat down beside me, beside a pile of shoes, and didn’t say anything, but started to cry too.
Maybe it’s like that.
Maybe whether I’m here or there He remains, showing up in inky nights, girlfriend’s kisses, sister’s tears. I wonder when the day will come when I feel Him, when I look back and feel crazy for ever wanting to leave, to run, to walk away. When will I feel the unmistakable grace, where will I be, where will we be, where will we be?
Monday, December 7, 2009
this year's reads
The Year of the Short Story
Before I moved into my new apartment (with roomates) my usual morning routine consisted of one cup of oatmeal, one pot of coffee, and one short story. A few of these collections were from familiar favorites, but some were great new finds. It feels right to start the list, like the day, off with these.
Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing by Lydia Peele
I chose it because it had the best title on the new release shelf. I wasn't disappointed. These stories, set mostly in rural mid-west and southern areas, feel like stories Carl Sandburg would enjoy.
It's Beginning to Hurt by James Ladsun
Another book I picked because of the title, and another win. Incredible characters in these stories.
The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami
Everything he writes is magic.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
It's easy to see why she's a Pulitzer winner. Most of these nine stories start off slow but when I got to the last page I would have to cover the last sentence to keep fight off the temptation to see how they end. I loved this book.
Unacustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri
see above.
Selected Short Stories of William Faulkner
I re-read these because I was introduced to a writer who obviously drew a lot of influence from Faulkner (more on her later). Faulkner's still not my favorite. Please don't hate me.
The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel
A much lesser known work by the author of Life of Pi. A few of these stories were earlier works of his, and pretty raw (including the title story) but one story, The Time I Heard the Private Donald J. Rankin String Concerto with One Discordant Violin, by the American Composer John Morton will be one of those stories that stays with me forever, and is read again and again.
********
The New to Me Award
These are books by an individual many have read, but I'm just discovering. In high school, I always ended up in English classes that did more writing than reading; I blame that in part. My writing mentor/editor/friend/SideWalk Chalk chair Amy Hudock is a huge fan of this author, and has been trying to get me to read her work for several years. I'm glad I finally did. I'll list them in the order I've read them.
A Mercy by Toni Morrison
After the first chapter I realized I had developed a literary crush on a 78 year old woman. In many ways, this book was a prequel to her most famous work, Beloved, although this one was an easier read. A Mercy is told in six different voices by six different characters. The beginning, told by Florens, and a selection near the end narrated by Florens' mother are two of the most beautiful passages I have read.
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Once again, how someone can write such beautiful prose describing the most despondent situations amazes me.
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
This was my least favorite of the three I read, and it was still powerful. Each of these books circles around a single traumatic event in one character's life and the web it weaves describes more about the brokenness of the human spirit than any author I've read. An obvious influence in her writing style is Faulkner, which led me back to some of his works this year as well.
********
Classics, Read or Re-Read
It wasn't until my mid twenties (the thirtieth birthday is this week) that I began to appreciate and understand the timelessness of some of the classics. Not necessarily all of them in this section, but each author mentioned at least had some work(s) that will be read as long as people are reading. I tend to go back and forth between contemporary and classics... these are the ones from this year.
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
I read this directly after finishing the three Morrison books, just to appreciate who she appreciated.
The Mayor of Castorbridge by Thomas Hardy I'm a big Thomas Hardy fan, but holy moly he would have been the death of any party.
Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut
Maybe not one of his most famous books, but he could do no wrong.
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
He's in almost every way the antonym of Faulkner. I appreciate them both. I love me some Hemingway.
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
The irony is not lost on me, but I always end up taking this book when I go camping in the mountains. Probably because it fits so perfectly in my backpack. I never get tired of it either.
De Profundis by Oscar Wilde
I found the collection of letters now known as De Profundis in the back of an old copy of Wilde's Dorian Gray, and it has become one of the writings that has most influenced my life. I've read it multiple times each year.
********
Poetry at Intermission
I haven't read a lot, but this year I've read a few that make me want to read more.
Harvest Poems by Carl Sandburg
A copy of Harvest Poems was given to me by one of my favorite people I met this year, Steve Bare. He told me it was one of the collections he is always re-reading. Many of them made me want to live in the midwest. "Explanations of Love" is the one that has stuck with me several months after reading.
Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake
I saw an exhibit on Blake in New York a few years ago, shortly after reading him for the first time. It made me appreciate him even more.
The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God by Rainer Maria Rilke
I first read Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet several years ago, and when I came across this book of love poems to God by a man who himself could not decide what he thought about God it moved to the top of my reading list. Rilke, along with Wilde has had a huge impact on me.
A selection from one of the poems (less about God and more about Rilke's understanding of himself while writing these poems):
"I would describe myself
like a landscape I've studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I'm coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother's face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged."
********
The Books about Faith/Living/Purpose
It's been a tough year, years really, for me and faith. The purpose of this list isn't to go into that... I've written about that stuff enough for now... but these are the books I've read for one reason or another that touch on one of these topics.
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
Plan B by Anne Lamott
Grace, Eventually by Anne Lamott
I grouped them all together because they were really all the same book. That's not to say I didn't like them, or take something from them, because I did, but it feels like reading the same good story over and over. By the third book she was running out of material. Still, she is a beautiful story teller, writer, and person. I disagree with some of her thoughts her diehards love her for, agree with a few things many despise her for, and appreciate her willingness to talk about it. She's a thought provoker for sure, but you can probably stick to Traveling Mercies.
To Own a Dragon by Donald Miller
I found a copy of this book sitting by the sink in the restroom of Charleston Place and thought if it's not a sign it's close enough to a sign. He's growing on me. I've read Blue Like Jazz and liked it enough, but thought Searching for God Knows What was much better. This one, his description of life without a father was up there with Searching.
A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller
This was his latest, and an interesting read... He uses the making of a movie about Blue Like Jazz as a jumping off point to talk about the story our lives are telling.
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
Another book I've read once the past few years, and will probably continue to do. He doesn't just give permission to wonder about life but celebrates it. I love him for that.
********
Memoir/Biography/Essays
Memoir is one of my favorite genres. The Lamott, Miller, and Rilke books would have all fit here as well. These are the others I read.
Dylan on Dylan edited by Jonathan Cott
If there's anyone I wish I could have been besides me it would be Bob Dylan. This collection of unedited interviews is the next best thing.
Lincoln's Greatest Speech by Ronald C. White Jr.
A study of Lincoln's 2nd inaugural address. Lincoln's understanding of the written word - syntax, sentence structure, voice, technique - and its ability to transform culture is almost unmatched.
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, and American Slave by Frederick Douglass
Worth re-reading every few years. One of my "If I could have a conversation with anyone" choices for sure.
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn
Sometimes I buy books just because of the cover, or title. Sometimes those books turn into my favorites. Sometimes they don't. This is one that didn't. It's an interesting story, for sure - Nick meets his father while working as a caseworker in a homeless shelter - just not one that I thought was told very well.
********
The Rest
Other books I've read this year.
Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman
A debut novel about life in the slums. It wasn't my favorite book of the year, but one I enjoyed and will read again.
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
I read it again because I feel like any book someone writes that inspires an entire nation of people to kill him for writing is worth trying to really understand what he was saying.
Starting Out in the Evening by Brian Morton
I saw this movie before I knew it was a book. The movie starred Frank Langella in a role he should have won an award for. It was a perfect movie. The book was great too, but this was one of those rare circumstances where I felt like it really needed an actor to bring the character to life... Rent the movie. And read the book. But definitely rent the movie.
********
A Book I'm Reading Now That Is Making an Impact
Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer
Foer is hands down my favorite contemporary novelist. His first two books, Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close will always be read and re-read and re-read. I've been waiting several years for his next work, and it was a surprise to hear that such a gifted novelist was writing a nonfiction book about life as a vegetarian. This book is the story that came out after he and his wife, novelist Nicole Krauss, had a son and needed to decide what type of diet their family would eat. Foer and Krauss had previously had an on-again-off-again diet of being vegetarian, but wanted to decide once and for all. His research into the factory farming industry and the history of husbandry is eye-opening and the stories he weaves make it connect on a level that other books dealing with the same issue don't quite live up to. It's at the very least a pretty daring work by someone who could have been comfortable doing what he does best. The closest I've come to being vegetarian is the few months a year I go only eating vegetables and fish, but by the time I'm done with this book that could change.
********
Next Up
Atomic Farmgirl by Teri Hein
She's SideWalk Chalk's board advisor, executive director of 826Seattle, a wealth of knowledge, and an all-around incredible person. I'm looking forward to the read.
Before I moved into my new apartment (with roomates) my usual morning routine consisted of one cup of oatmeal, one pot of coffee, and one short story. A few of these collections were from familiar favorites, but some were great new finds. It feels right to start the list, like the day, off with these.
Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing by Lydia Peele
I chose it because it had the best title on the new release shelf. I wasn't disappointed. These stories, set mostly in rural mid-west and southern areas, feel like stories Carl Sandburg would enjoy.
It's Beginning to Hurt by James Ladsun
Another book I picked because of the title, and another win. Incredible characters in these stories.
The Elephant Vanishes by Haruki Murakami
Everything he writes is magic.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
It's easy to see why she's a Pulitzer winner. Most of these nine stories start off slow but when I got to the last page I would have to cover the last sentence to keep fight off the temptation to see how they end. I loved this book.
Unacustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri
see above.
Selected Short Stories of William Faulkner
I re-read these because I was introduced to a writer who obviously drew a lot of influence from Faulkner (more on her later). Faulkner's still not my favorite. Please don't hate me.
The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios by Yann Martel
A much lesser known work by the author of Life of Pi. A few of these stories were earlier works of his, and pretty raw (including the title story) but one story, The Time I Heard the Private Donald J. Rankin String Concerto with One Discordant Violin, by the American Composer John Morton will be one of those stories that stays with me forever, and is read again and again.
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The New to Me Award
These are books by an individual many have read, but I'm just discovering. In high school, I always ended up in English classes that did more writing than reading; I blame that in part. My writing mentor/editor/friend/SideWalk Chalk chair Amy Hudock is a huge fan of this author, and has been trying to get me to read her work for several years. I'm glad I finally did. I'll list them in the order I've read them.
A Mercy by Toni Morrison
After the first chapter I realized I had developed a literary crush on a 78 year old woman. In many ways, this book was a prequel to her most famous work, Beloved, although this one was an easier read. A Mercy is told in six different voices by six different characters. The beginning, told by Florens, and a selection near the end narrated by Florens' mother are two of the most beautiful passages I have read.
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Once again, how someone can write such beautiful prose describing the most despondent situations amazes me.
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
This was my least favorite of the three I read, and it was still powerful. Each of these books circles around a single traumatic event in one character's life and the web it weaves describes more about the brokenness of the human spirit than any author I've read. An obvious influence in her writing style is Faulkner, which led me back to some of his works this year as well.
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Classics, Read or Re-Read
It wasn't until my mid twenties (the thirtieth birthday is this week) that I began to appreciate and understand the timelessness of some of the classics. Not necessarily all of them in this section, but each author mentioned at least had some work(s) that will be read as long as people are reading. I tend to go back and forth between contemporary and classics... these are the ones from this year.
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
I read this directly after finishing the three Morrison books, just to appreciate who she appreciated.
The Mayor of Castorbridge by Thomas Hardy I'm a big Thomas Hardy fan, but holy moly he would have been the death of any party.
Deadeye Dick by Kurt Vonnegut
Maybe not one of his most famous books, but he could do no wrong.
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
He's in almost every way the antonym of Faulkner. I appreciate them both. I love me some Hemingway.
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
The irony is not lost on me, but I always end up taking this book when I go camping in the mountains. Probably because it fits so perfectly in my backpack. I never get tired of it either.
De Profundis by Oscar Wilde
I found the collection of letters now known as De Profundis in the back of an old copy of Wilde's Dorian Gray, and it has become one of the writings that has most influenced my life. I've read it multiple times each year.
********
Poetry at Intermission
I haven't read a lot, but this year I've read a few that make me want to read more.
Harvest Poems by Carl Sandburg
A copy of Harvest Poems was given to me by one of my favorite people I met this year, Steve Bare. He told me it was one of the collections he is always re-reading. Many of them made me want to live in the midwest. "Explanations of Love" is the one that has stuck with me several months after reading.
Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake
I saw an exhibit on Blake in New York a few years ago, shortly after reading him for the first time. It made me appreciate him even more.
The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God by Rainer Maria Rilke
I first read Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet several years ago, and when I came across this book of love poems to God by a man who himself could not decide what he thought about God it moved to the top of my reading list. Rilke, along with Wilde has had a huge impact on me.
A selection from one of the poems (less about God and more about Rilke's understanding of himself while writing these poems):
"I would describe myself
like a landscape I've studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I'm coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtime;
like my mother's face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged."
********
The Books about Faith/Living/Purpose
It's been a tough year, years really, for me and faith. The purpose of this list isn't to go into that... I've written about that stuff enough for now... but these are the books I've read for one reason or another that touch on one of these topics.
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
Plan B by Anne Lamott
Grace, Eventually by Anne Lamott
I grouped them all together because they were really all the same book. That's not to say I didn't like them, or take something from them, because I did, but it feels like reading the same good story over and over. By the third book she was running out of material. Still, she is a beautiful story teller, writer, and person. I disagree with some of her thoughts her diehards love her for, agree with a few things many despise her for, and appreciate her willingness to talk about it. She's a thought provoker for sure, but you can probably stick to Traveling Mercies.
To Own a Dragon by Donald Miller
I found a copy of this book sitting by the sink in the restroom of Charleston Place and thought if it's not a sign it's close enough to a sign. He's growing on me. I've read Blue Like Jazz and liked it enough, but thought Searching for God Knows What was much better. This one, his description of life without a father was up there with Searching.
A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller
This was his latest, and an interesting read... He uses the making of a movie about Blue Like Jazz as a jumping off point to talk about the story our lives are telling.
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
Another book I've read once the past few years, and will probably continue to do. He doesn't just give permission to wonder about life but celebrates it. I love him for that.
********
Memoir/Biography/Essays
Memoir is one of my favorite genres. The Lamott, Miller, and Rilke books would have all fit here as well. These are the others I read.
Dylan on Dylan edited by Jonathan Cott
If there's anyone I wish I could have been besides me it would be Bob Dylan. This collection of unedited interviews is the next best thing.
Lincoln's Greatest Speech by Ronald C. White Jr.
A study of Lincoln's 2nd inaugural address. Lincoln's understanding of the written word - syntax, sentence structure, voice, technique - and its ability to transform culture is almost unmatched.
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, and American Slave by Frederick Douglass
Worth re-reading every few years. One of my "If I could have a conversation with anyone" choices for sure.
Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn
Sometimes I buy books just because of the cover, or title. Sometimes those books turn into my favorites. Sometimes they don't. This is one that didn't. It's an interesting story, for sure - Nick meets his father while working as a caseworker in a homeless shelter - just not one that I thought was told very well.
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The Rest
Other books I've read this year.
Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman
A debut novel about life in the slums. It wasn't my favorite book of the year, but one I enjoyed and will read again.
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
I read it again because I feel like any book someone writes that inspires an entire nation of people to kill him for writing is worth trying to really understand what he was saying.
Starting Out in the Evening by Brian Morton
I saw this movie before I knew it was a book. The movie starred Frank Langella in a role he should have won an award for. It was a perfect movie. The book was great too, but this was one of those rare circumstances where I felt like it really needed an actor to bring the character to life... Rent the movie. And read the book. But definitely rent the movie.
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A Book I'm Reading Now That Is Making an Impact
Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer
Foer is hands down my favorite contemporary novelist. His first two books, Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close will always be read and re-read and re-read. I've been waiting several years for his next work, and it was a surprise to hear that such a gifted novelist was writing a nonfiction book about life as a vegetarian. This book is the story that came out after he and his wife, novelist Nicole Krauss, had a son and needed to decide what type of diet their family would eat. Foer and Krauss had previously had an on-again-off-again diet of being vegetarian, but wanted to decide once and for all. His research into the factory farming industry and the history of husbandry is eye-opening and the stories he weaves make it connect on a level that other books dealing with the same issue don't quite live up to. It's at the very least a pretty daring work by someone who could have been comfortable doing what he does best. The closest I've come to being vegetarian is the few months a year I go only eating vegetables and fish, but by the time I'm done with this book that could change.
********
Next Up
Atomic Farmgirl by Teri Hein
She's SideWalk Chalk's board advisor, executive director of 826Seattle, a wealth of knowledge, and an all-around incredible person. I'm looking forward to the read.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
reaching.
I only have a handful of friends that are Christians, and about half of them are struggling with what that means. Most days, I am too.
One of these friends, a guy active in his church, confessed a few weeks ago that he doesn’t know if he still believes the stories in the Bible are true.
“I mean, you can believe they’re true, and you can live like they are, but there’s no way to really know they are.”
I talked about this with my friend Mandie when we had church at a coffee shop. She told me that when she begins to doubt her faith, a couple of things happen.
First, she gets scared. I can identify with that. Sometimes I wonder if I believe the things I do simply because so much of my life has been invested in believing. For fourteen years I’ve tried, and failed, and tried again to live my life in a way that pleases a Father I’ve never actually met. Everyone who follows Christ is. I know that thought makes a lot of Christians cringe, but I hope they understand what I mean; we’ve never met Him in the traditional sense – never shared a handshake or a bag of Twizzlers. Asking yourself “What if it’s not true?” is a scary thing for most of us.
The exception would be my friend Nicole, who I’ve written about before. She told me once that she didn’t care if somebody proved none of it was true; she would keep following because she likes the way it feels and the results it’s had in her life. I walked home the night she told me that wondering if I felt that same way. I don’t think I do.
The second thing Mandie told me that happens when she begins to doubt her faith is her life becomes stagnant.
“Like nothing really matters, and I have no purpose.”
I can see the truth of that in my life. I get caught up in what I’m doing and forget who I’m doing it for, and it’s not long before my identity is tied up in the job I have or whether I wrote anything that week, or even attempted to. It’s pretty miserable, really. I start getting depressed, and begin feeling that if I don’t get the next grant and the nonprofit my friend and I run has to shut down then everything is my fault and I’m a failure. I worry about where I would go and wonder if I would have the strength to start all over. Again. I start to feel like I’m being used, and forget that being used is a privilege, not a sacrifice.
It’s evident in my friends’ lives, too – the ones who are wrestling with doubt. They’re feeling the weight of having to know the answers, feeling the pressure of tomorrow, feeling – worse of all – a loss of joy.
A few nights ago I went for a walk to think about these things. The season has started to change, and, as usual, when it does something inside me begins to wake up.
I thought about my friend Phillip and the night a few weeks ago when he asked me if I wanted to ride motorcycles with him to church.
“We can get pizza and beer after,” he had promised.
While we were riding across the bridge, I started thinking about all of the things I wouldn’t like about sitting through a church service. I thought about how the guitarist in the band would have just the right hair cut, and how while they played the crowd would stand, the girls with their hands outstretched and the guys with a fist in the air. I realize that this wasn’t fair, and that you get out of things what you put into it, and the truth is, the people I saw there and the few I met could not have been any nicer. Still, I felt out of place, like everyone else in the room was wearing a red shirt - and I knew we were supposed to - but the only color I had was blue. People didn’t whisper and point, but I could tell. I didn’t belong.
But I used to. And sometimes I miss it. Rainer Rilke called it “the great homesickness we could never shake off.” I rarely feel at home. Most Sunday mornings, whether I’m going to church or – more frequently these days – skipping, I think about the life I used to have, and wish I could have one more conversation with everyone, all of us crowded around a table on a porch. I want to let Nate know I forgive him, even though he’s never asked for it. Most days I do. Or maybe it would be best to not even mention it. I want us to be friends again. I want to hear about his life, and to tell him about my girlfriend and my job and the new friends I’ve made. I want him to be my church.
Sometimes, I think forgiving would be easier if I wasn't such shit at forgetting.
The relationship between forgiving and forgetting is the thing about Christianity that frustrates me the most. Jesus said that we're forgiven to the extent of which we forgive. It also says in the Bible that God is able to take our wrongs done to Him and throw them as far away as the east is from the west. If I'm not reading too much into that, it means that not only does he not hold my sin against me; he actually wipes it from his memory.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe letting go isn't as much about forgetting, about running away from a memory, as it is about returning to one- grace. Maybe God is so in love with us he's like a goldfish continually rediscovering the other side of the bowl; the slate's wiped clean and we get to wake up reborn, innocent and full of new life, not attached to life the way it used to be.
I passed Leroy while I was walking down King Street. Leroy is homeless, and in a wheelchair.
“Excuse me,” he said.
I took my headphones out of my ear and put them in my pocket.
“How far down there are you going?”
“I don’t really know,” I told him. “Planning to go to the Battery and just walk for a bit.”
He stared at me, like he wanted to ask me something but was embarrassed to.
“Can I take you somewhere?” I offered.
“Could you just take me to the first stoplight down there?” He lifted his arm and pointed to the stoplight. His hand was covered with bumps, one near his wrist was almost the size of his pinky.
“Yea… sure.” I said. I started to push him, taking small steps so my shins wouldn’t hit the back of his chair.
Four women dressed for a night out walked out of Charleston Place, and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, admiring each other’s shoes. They made me angry, not because I was in a hurry, but because I began to wonder what it would feel like to be trapped in a wheel chair and have to listen to people talk about their feet.
The women didn’t notice us, even though we were five feet behind them. Finally they began to walk, even slower than we were going.
I asked Leroy how long he’s lived in Charleston.
“Since twelve years before Kennedy was assassinated.”
When we got to the corner he said he was going left. I asked him where he was headed, and he told me he didn’t want me to go out of my way.
“I’m not really heading anywhere,” I said. “Just wanted to get out.”
“Well I’m going to the corner of Market and Church.”
I told him I would go with him.
While I pushed him to down the sidewalk, past the hotel and restaurants and candy stores, I asked him why he was going to the Market.
“I’m going to sell these pencils,” he told me, shaking a plastic cup full of pencils decorated with cartoon characters like it should have been obvious.
I wondered how many pencils he would sell that night, and what he would rather be doing if he could do anything, with anyone, anywhere. I wanted to ask him how long he’d been in the wheelchair, and if he still missed being able to use his legs, or if it had been so long he’d forgotten what it was like.
I wondered if he felt more complete than me.
I stood with him for a few minutes on the corner of Market and Church. Nobody wanted any pencils. I couldn’t think of anything that seemed right to say, so I just told him I’d see him around and started to walk. I went down to the Battery, and through all the residential streets south of Broad, and finally, around Colonial Lake. While I was walking I started to pray, or something close to it.
I told God that as much as I wanted to know the answers to all that happened in Columbia, as much as I wanted to figure out why my wife and friends and church and even He seemed to abandon me, I didn’t want to be stuck trying to figure it out forever. I wanted my life to keep moving. For a moment, sitting on the bench looking at the reflection of the moon on the water, I felt as if I was looking inside the period at the end of a difficult sentence, not just seeing a dot on a page, but seeing a rest, a space, a breath. I felt, for a moment, a return to who I used to be.
***
I’m sitting in a coffee shop, the same one I come to for church with Mandie and her friends sometimes. One of the employees just walked by with a wet rag, wiping crumbs off the table someone left.
“What are you writing about?” he asked.
I gave him my usual answer.
“I don’t know. Whatever comes out.”
I wish I could have been honest. What comes out are usually stories of longing.
Longing to be able to stand, and run. Longing not to doubt. Longing for purpose. Longing for a friendship I used to have. Longing for the ability to trust in God the way I used to, with no fear of getting screwed. Longing, somehow, for my past, and a completely separate future. Longing for somebody else, or occasionally, to be somebody else.
Longing to know everything is going to be ok.
When I’m still, usually in the mornings – sitting outside with my back against the front of my house – I recognize it’s really just a longing to live.
I want to live today and not just tomorrow. Or yesterday.
I want to learn from those around me, to absorb their strength and their grace. I want to dance with my girlfriend, even though I’m rhythmless. I want to put an extra pump of butter on my popcorn, run another mile, give something I thought I needed away. I want to write a story I love, and then tear it up anyway, because that one was just for me. I want to pass out high-fives as if they cured cancer; maybe they do. I want to study a globe, put one finger on a place I’ve been and another on a place I want to go. I want to sit in the grass with my back against a tree and remember the lava-lamp glow of the Northern Lights above a snow-covered field in Norway. I want to have a late-night beer with a friend, maybe Adam, or Drew.
Mostly I want to love to forgive.
***
Last night, driving home from Savannah, I caught the last few minutes of the Jazz Piano program on NPR. I don’t know who the guest artist was, but I felt like he could have been any of us. He was referencing a recent concert he had performed at Carnegie Hall.
“When I was playing, I heard two songs: the one in my head I wanted to play, and the one on the keyboard I was able to.”
The segment ended with an excerpt from the concert, and you could hear it, in the middle of the song, a pause and a groan, like he was stretching for something just out of reach.
One of these friends, a guy active in his church, confessed a few weeks ago that he doesn’t know if he still believes the stories in the Bible are true.
“I mean, you can believe they’re true, and you can live like they are, but there’s no way to really know they are.”
I talked about this with my friend Mandie when we had church at a coffee shop. She told me that when she begins to doubt her faith, a couple of things happen.
First, she gets scared. I can identify with that. Sometimes I wonder if I believe the things I do simply because so much of my life has been invested in believing. For fourteen years I’ve tried, and failed, and tried again to live my life in a way that pleases a Father I’ve never actually met. Everyone who follows Christ is. I know that thought makes a lot of Christians cringe, but I hope they understand what I mean; we’ve never met Him in the traditional sense – never shared a handshake or a bag of Twizzlers. Asking yourself “What if it’s not true?” is a scary thing for most of us.
The exception would be my friend Nicole, who I’ve written about before. She told me once that she didn’t care if somebody proved none of it was true; she would keep following because she likes the way it feels and the results it’s had in her life. I walked home the night she told me that wondering if I felt that same way. I don’t think I do.
The second thing Mandie told me that happens when she begins to doubt her faith is her life becomes stagnant.
“Like nothing really matters, and I have no purpose.”
I can see the truth of that in my life. I get caught up in what I’m doing and forget who I’m doing it for, and it’s not long before my identity is tied up in the job I have or whether I wrote anything that week, or even attempted to. It’s pretty miserable, really. I start getting depressed, and begin feeling that if I don’t get the next grant and the nonprofit my friend and I run has to shut down then everything is my fault and I’m a failure. I worry about where I would go and wonder if I would have the strength to start all over. Again. I start to feel like I’m being used, and forget that being used is a privilege, not a sacrifice.
It’s evident in my friends’ lives, too – the ones who are wrestling with doubt. They’re feeling the weight of having to know the answers, feeling the pressure of tomorrow, feeling – worse of all – a loss of joy.
A few nights ago I went for a walk to think about these things. The season has started to change, and, as usual, when it does something inside me begins to wake up.
I thought about my friend Phillip and the night a few weeks ago when he asked me if I wanted to ride motorcycles with him to church.
“We can get pizza and beer after,” he had promised.
While we were riding across the bridge, I started thinking about all of the things I wouldn’t like about sitting through a church service. I thought about how the guitarist in the band would have just the right hair cut, and how while they played the crowd would stand, the girls with their hands outstretched and the guys with a fist in the air. I realize that this wasn’t fair, and that you get out of things what you put into it, and the truth is, the people I saw there and the few I met could not have been any nicer. Still, I felt out of place, like everyone else in the room was wearing a red shirt - and I knew we were supposed to - but the only color I had was blue. People didn’t whisper and point, but I could tell. I didn’t belong.
But I used to. And sometimes I miss it. Rainer Rilke called it “the great homesickness we could never shake off.” I rarely feel at home. Most Sunday mornings, whether I’m going to church or – more frequently these days – skipping, I think about the life I used to have, and wish I could have one more conversation with everyone, all of us crowded around a table on a porch. I want to let Nate know I forgive him, even though he’s never asked for it. Most days I do. Or maybe it would be best to not even mention it. I want us to be friends again. I want to hear about his life, and to tell him about my girlfriend and my job and the new friends I’ve made. I want him to be my church.
Sometimes, I think forgiving would be easier if I wasn't such shit at forgetting.
The relationship between forgiving and forgetting is the thing about Christianity that frustrates me the most. Jesus said that we're forgiven to the extent of which we forgive. It also says in the Bible that God is able to take our wrongs done to Him and throw them as far away as the east is from the west. If I'm not reading too much into that, it means that not only does he not hold my sin against me; he actually wipes it from his memory.
Maybe I've got it all wrong. Maybe letting go isn't as much about forgetting, about running away from a memory, as it is about returning to one- grace. Maybe God is so in love with us he's like a goldfish continually rediscovering the other side of the bowl; the slate's wiped clean and we get to wake up reborn, innocent and full of new life, not attached to life the way it used to be.
I passed Leroy while I was walking down King Street. Leroy is homeless, and in a wheelchair.
“Excuse me,” he said.
I took my headphones out of my ear and put them in my pocket.
“How far down there are you going?”
“I don’t really know,” I told him. “Planning to go to the Battery and just walk for a bit.”
He stared at me, like he wanted to ask me something but was embarrassed to.
“Can I take you somewhere?” I offered.
“Could you just take me to the first stoplight down there?” He lifted his arm and pointed to the stoplight. His hand was covered with bumps, one near his wrist was almost the size of his pinky.
“Yea… sure.” I said. I started to push him, taking small steps so my shins wouldn’t hit the back of his chair.
Four women dressed for a night out walked out of Charleston Place, and stood in the middle of the sidewalk, admiring each other’s shoes. They made me angry, not because I was in a hurry, but because I began to wonder what it would feel like to be trapped in a wheel chair and have to listen to people talk about their feet.
The women didn’t notice us, even though we were five feet behind them. Finally they began to walk, even slower than we were going.
I asked Leroy how long he’s lived in Charleston.
“Since twelve years before Kennedy was assassinated.”
When we got to the corner he said he was going left. I asked him where he was headed, and he told me he didn’t want me to go out of my way.
“I’m not really heading anywhere,” I said. “Just wanted to get out.”
“Well I’m going to the corner of Market and Church.”
I told him I would go with him.
While I pushed him to down the sidewalk, past the hotel and restaurants and candy stores, I asked him why he was going to the Market.
“I’m going to sell these pencils,” he told me, shaking a plastic cup full of pencils decorated with cartoon characters like it should have been obvious.
I wondered how many pencils he would sell that night, and what he would rather be doing if he could do anything, with anyone, anywhere. I wanted to ask him how long he’d been in the wheelchair, and if he still missed being able to use his legs, or if it had been so long he’d forgotten what it was like.
I wondered if he felt more complete than me.
I stood with him for a few minutes on the corner of Market and Church. Nobody wanted any pencils. I couldn’t think of anything that seemed right to say, so I just told him I’d see him around and started to walk. I went down to the Battery, and through all the residential streets south of Broad, and finally, around Colonial Lake. While I was walking I started to pray, or something close to it.
I told God that as much as I wanted to know the answers to all that happened in Columbia, as much as I wanted to figure out why my wife and friends and church and even He seemed to abandon me, I didn’t want to be stuck trying to figure it out forever. I wanted my life to keep moving. For a moment, sitting on the bench looking at the reflection of the moon on the water, I felt as if I was looking inside the period at the end of a difficult sentence, not just seeing a dot on a page, but seeing a rest, a space, a breath. I felt, for a moment, a return to who I used to be.
***
I’m sitting in a coffee shop, the same one I come to for church with Mandie and her friends sometimes. One of the employees just walked by with a wet rag, wiping crumbs off the table someone left.
“What are you writing about?” he asked.
I gave him my usual answer.
“I don’t know. Whatever comes out.”
I wish I could have been honest. What comes out are usually stories of longing.
Longing to be able to stand, and run. Longing not to doubt. Longing for purpose. Longing for a friendship I used to have. Longing for the ability to trust in God the way I used to, with no fear of getting screwed. Longing, somehow, for my past, and a completely separate future. Longing for somebody else, or occasionally, to be somebody else.
Longing to know everything is going to be ok.
When I’m still, usually in the mornings – sitting outside with my back against the front of my house – I recognize it’s really just a longing to live.
I want to live today and not just tomorrow. Or yesterday.
I want to learn from those around me, to absorb their strength and their grace. I want to dance with my girlfriend, even though I’m rhythmless. I want to put an extra pump of butter on my popcorn, run another mile, give something I thought I needed away. I want to write a story I love, and then tear it up anyway, because that one was just for me. I want to pass out high-fives as if they cured cancer; maybe they do. I want to study a globe, put one finger on a place I’ve been and another on a place I want to go. I want to sit in the grass with my back against a tree and remember the lava-lamp glow of the Northern Lights above a snow-covered field in Norway. I want to have a late-night beer with a friend, maybe Adam, or Drew.
Mostly I want to love to forgive.
***
Last night, driving home from Savannah, I caught the last few minutes of the Jazz Piano program on NPR. I don’t know who the guest artist was, but I felt like he could have been any of us. He was referencing a recent concert he had performed at Carnegie Hall.
“When I was playing, I heard two songs: the one in my head I wanted to play, and the one on the keyboard I was able to.”
The segment ended with an excerpt from the concert, and you could hear it, in the middle of the song, a pause and a groan, like he was stretching for something just out of reach.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
leaping
Sigur Rós - Glósóli from sigur-ros.co.uk on Vimeo.
I love it because it reminds me of being five and jumping from the back of our patterned cloth couch to the shaggy green carpet below. For a moment, I swear, I flew.
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