Interior landscapes

Although Boston and surrounding small cities are visually rich, the interior of my mother’s house offers mini-views strangely similar to the public environs of north Alabama. Cheap religious icons of plastic, glass, and metal; emphasis on the extended family, especially its past through photographs; a penchant for the “cute” and politically simple.

During my recent visit to my parents' abode up north, I was taken by the idea of impermanence, and felt a desire to cling to these tiny furniture-top interior landscapes created by my mother from the materials she felt comfortable with. When will I ever see EXACTLY their like again? However, even the art world now flaunts collections of meaningful detritus. Minus the personal items, my mother’s arrangements, partly an expression of (Great Depression/depression induced?) not-wanting-to-let-go-of-anything, would be considered mini-installations or shrines.

My friend Anya, whom I also visited in the Boston area, has shrines, but they are thematic and minimal. She knows how to let go. She also knows how to wield a dustcloth.

There was a sadness in looking at my mother’s frozen galaxies of objects. Once she is gone, they’ll be gone. For now, the interior of the house is still a reflection of her concerns and hopes, though her once-frightening creativity has finally been contained by such things as fake crystal rosary beads and potholders in the shape of owls. But nothing is wasted.

In the midst of this, in his separate bedroom, my father reads his complicated books and lets objects fall where they were last given attention. His collections are arranged in his head, and consist of scientific facts and historical anecdotes. Things drift to the corners of his lair: the lost shoe, the letter from a friend now deceased, two old pennies, an electrical outlet adapter.

Human is as human does. And I, a human, witness this partnered domestic stasis, collecting impressions and sentiments, making a shrine in my heart, knowing that to be as impermanent as my father’s thoughts and my mother’s objects.

It's all "good."

I am sure many people have thought of this while treadmilling or stairstepping at the gym: "Here I am exerting myself, burning calories, moving objects (i.e. rubber-covered foot platforms) 'round and 'round in the material world; why can't my efforts be used to supplement energy sources like oil, coal, water power or nuclear power? If not for the benefit of others, then at least for the benefit of myself!"

Well, this just doesn't seem to be a huge concern or interest. Here's a company looking for ideas, but if anyone's submitted any, there's no evidence. I did find plans for a bicycle-powered washing machine that I would construct IMMEDIATELY if my "utility room" weren't so danged small.

I expend too much energy at the gym. It's part of my mental health program, but that's of little concern to most people. Lately I've been listening to English literature lectures on a used iPod. I can only do this for about half an hour, because my concentration tends to dissolve after that. One of the great things about aerobic activity, for me, is that my concentration DOES dissolve, and I tend not to care because I'm doing something "good" anyway. And yet, I could do something equally mindless and "good" by staying home and strenuously cleaning something. What's the diff?

The difference is repetition. I think I'm a closet autistic. I enjoy repetitive motion way too much. I find it soothing and redemptive. Although I am not completely lulled. I enjoy spewing some attention on the way my legs or feet or hips feel; on whether or not I'm having to exert more effort than the day before; and on what could possibly have affected that. My bad day at work? My not-so-healthy breakfast? My waking up several times the night before to let the cats in and out? My own body has become an endless source of fascination now that it's on the verge of becoming eccentric in its operation (intermittently dysfunctional). I am a baby-boomer, after all.

But, back to the ENERGY issue. Why is there not readily-available, battery-charging home exercise equipment? And more pertinent, why is there not this kind of equipment in public gymnasiums? Couldn't the gyms offer a menu of charitable causes for which their patrons could productively and directly ellipticize or stairstep? I would love to exert myself for utilities payments for the elderly; after all, I might be one soon.

And so the gym continues to be an invitation to iPod-enhanced solipsism, either via Teaching Company lectures or what passes for music these days (I can only imagine, not having downloaded any). But temporary (and possibly therapeutic) retreat into a world of one's own is NOT incompatible with generating energy as a by-product! I see fraternity/sorority energyraisers! I see tax deductions! I see measuring one's daily exercise "achievement" in terms of what one has done for the energy crisis, especially one's OWN energy crisis (on whatever level that can be interpreted).

Season's feelings

An excursion to Florida, with tropical breezes turning slowly to cold rain during the long drive back. John K. in a Santa Claus hat. Bette making delicious soup in the house in the woods. Beth laughing in Bruce and Ryn's kitchen, putting on her Tallulah accent. New faces on the periphery, people with high-tech jobs. A new kitten in my house. Rigid schedules failing, giving way to spontaneity. Scary for a person like me, even for a few days. Christmas doesn't carry the meaning, something else does. I feel the planet turning, banking, skidding across space, but I stay on my feet. Waking up is like riding a bicycle; you keep remembering how to do it even if you haven't for a long time.

A blue and white dance

Worldly things seem to be coming together for me. Despite paperwork SNAFUs, my degree-obtainment is drawing near. I’ll “walk” on December 16 at the winter graduation. I’ve bought my master’s gown; it comes with some kind of blue-and-white hood. This is to distinguish the graduate degree obtainers from the bachelor’s degree obtainers, I suppose. Blue and white are my university’s colors, but I am not sure university spirit is the reason for their presence here. Maybe they mean “English Literature.” I suppose I should find out, research the matter, which is easily done these days. Ah, here we go: “A master's degree gown merits three inches of velvet trim in the color of the college awarding the degree and an oblong sleeve, square-cut at the rear with an arc cut-away at the front.” Does that answer the question?

I have already been offered a basic English composition/literature course to teach in the fall of 2008. It will be strange to be going back and forth between buildings, a secretary for most of the day and a “professor” for a few hours a week. (The part-time adjunct instructor category is officially “lecturer,” but the students tend to think that the person in front of the room is actually a “professor.” Or a fool. Or something in between.)

Oh, I have all sorts of plans, daydreams. I want to make them write. I want them to crave and adore the written word despite its failures and flaws. Like the deaf, dumb and blind title character in the rock opera, “Tommy,” with his pinball machines and blindfolds for everyone, I want to inflict my own idiosyncratic solutions to not-necessarily-universal problems on vulnerable others. While they pay for it.

From a slightly different angle, it can be seen that to teach is to perform, but it’s also to invite others to perform, whether out loud or in writing. Such invitations may be ignored, and instructions for performances are always provisional and often misunderstood. Still, something might happen when I teach my first English class that won’t be happening if I’m not there. Although that can be said about anyone, that would be cool!