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The Sun­day Times Book Review has an arti­cle about a new book– a tran­scrip­tion, really, and I’ve read the advance copy, it’s well worth the read– of an inter­view between the late, great David Fos­ter Wal­lace and the Rolling Stone reporter and writer David Lip­sky as Wal­lace is doing his book tour after Infi­nite Jest had come out.

I have a con­fes­sion to make.  I have never read Infi­nite Jest, for no par­tic­u­lar rea­son except that I was in a Dou­glas Cou­p­land phase at the time it came out.  But– I have read (and re-read, and re-read) Broom of the Sys­tem, Wallace’s very first book, in an advance copy, because my aunt designed the book when she was at Crown or Har­court or whomever first pub­lished that book.  And I have a first edi­tion hard­cover copy of Broom, prob­a­bly lit­er­ally hot off the presses, because I raved to my Aunt about what a great book it was, how it blew me away because at age 14 or what­ever I was when I read it, I was blown away by the author’s refusal to pan­der, to not avoid dif­fi­cult things, intel­lec­tual things that might make the reader take pause to look up things with which he was unfa­mil­iar.  (I spent a whole after­noon look­ing up Wittgen­stein, for exam­ple, and went out and bought an Everyman’s Library primer to get myself more acquainted with his ideas, Wal­lace had so affected me with way he’d woven the ref­er­ences inside the book.)

This arti­cle brought it all back, and reminded me again of some of the things I’ve been learn­ing and decid­ing for myself as I try out this whole writ­ing thing.  I’d men­tioned a while ago I’ve been play­ing around with fan­fic­tion– though it’s not really play­ing, because I think any writ­ing deserves to be done seri­ously, even if I’m work­ing with some­one else’s orig­i­nal char­ac­ters.  But it’s given me a chance to work with voice and nar­ra­tive struc­ture in an envi­ron­ment where peo­ple tend to be mostly sup­port­ive and there­fore have given me the courage to write some­thing orig­i­nal of my own– and what’s ref­er­enced in the arti­cle– it’s funny.

The ten­sions there between “dif­fi­cult” fic­tion– the kind that pro­vokes the reader to think, to do some work, to be chal­lenged on an emo­tional level– and the allure of escapist or pop­u­lar fic­tion, the kind of pulp guilty plea­sure we all enjoy every once in a while–it’s some­thing I’ve even come up against in writ­ing in the fan­fic­tion world (which a lot of “seri­ous authors” scorn and treat as a bunch of abom­i­na­tion vile ripoffs), and while I’ve been lucky to become a semi-popular writer in the fan­doms I write in, I’m not the most pop­u­lar of all– because I don’t write the cute easy themes, and I tend to visit dark places in some of my sto­ries.  I use big words, I play around with chronol­ogy, I switch the nar­ra­tive stream– I don’t make it easy on read­ers, in short.

I took part in a several-months con­test of late, and while my entries always placed high in the vote with my team, gar­ner­ing lots of pos­i­tive com­ments, I never won.  I’m con­vinced it’s because I wrote things that while true to the par­tic­u­lar prompts, my sub­jects tended to be harder, more emo­tion­ally honest/brutal approaches to things than some read­ers really wanted to deal with.  And they rarely were fluffy or cute– and even when they were, there was always still some larger, dark point to be made.  It didn’t make me a “worse” writer than the peo­ple who won– just less “popular.”

““If the writer does his job right, what he basi­cally does is remind the reader of how smart the reader is,” he says. Wal­lace con­trasts lit­er­a­ture with the elec­tronic media, espe­cially tele­vi­sion, an amuse­ment that is his own per­sonal weak­ness, an actual addic­tion. “One of the insid­i­ous lessons about TV is the meta-lesson that you’re dumb. This is all you can do. This is easy, and you’re the sort of per­son who really just wants to sit in a chair and have it easy.””

That’s how Wal­lace describes the ten­sion at one point in the inter­view, and while it’s a bit reduc­tion­ist– some­times we’ve had a hard day and we deserve a light laugh– his point remains true.

Every day in the store, peo­ple come to me to ask for rec­om­men­da­tions, and half the time, they’re ask­ing me if I’ve read some­thing I think is absolute trash.  I mean– Twi­light?  Dan Brown?  Come ON.

There are romance writ­ers who write bodice rip­pers who still man­age to write female hero­ines who’ve got spine, spunk and brains who I can rec­om­mend with a con­science.  Fan­tasy and sci-fi writ­ers too.  Same thing with mys­ter­ies and action.  There are pulp genre mass-market writ­ers who gen­er­ate entertainment-type beach reads that are still good writ­ers, and by that, I mean, they work in some kind of emo­tional res­o­nance, try to make their char­ac­ters peo­ple who learn some kind of intel­li­gent les­son or do some kind of good in the world, whether or not most of it’s fluff.  But there’s so much trash out there that just turns my stom­ach, and I think of all the peo­ple who read this mind­less trash and think that it’s good or just don’t think at all and just keep buy­ing it over and over with­out pay­ing any atten­tion to all the real writ­ing out there, the things that might chal­lenge them, make them do some work in their lives, do bet­ter, be bet­ter, learn some­thing about the larger world that they’d never known before then.

Scary shit, hunh?

I was talk­ing with the hus­band when we were away for the week­end, and say­ing how I thought that in some ways, rec­om­mend­ing a book was an incred­i­bly inti­mate act.  You’re telling some­one about some­thing that was impor­tant to you– that influ­enced what you thought, how you felt (even if you don’t come right out and say so)– and you’re putting into their hands a tool that has the power to affect them the same way.  Whether it does, whether it doesn’t– well, there’s no power over that except their own recep­tiv­ity and per­haps the power of your con­vic­tion at the time of your rec­om­men­da­tion, but still.  Words have power, if the per­son read­ing them is in a place to see and read them.  And while you have no power over how a per­son inter­prets those words, the mere fact that they’re read­ing and may see them the same way you do– well.  I dwell in pos­si­bil­ity (poetry or prose.)

Next week’s my extra 10% on my employee dis­count “employee appre­ci­a­tion” week.  I’ll be adding the rest of Wallace’s works to my shelf.  And feel­ing bet­ter about not tak­ing the easy way out, even if it means it takes me a while to write hard, orig­i­nal sto­ries that may take a long, good while for any­one to actu­ally like, much less want to publish.

There’s a May 24 col­umn from Pete Wells in the Din­ing sec­tion of the NYT about not hav­ing access to his cook­books since they’re boxed up for a move.  He relates a lost­ness he feels, not hav­ing access to those pages, yet talks about how, not being teth­ered to the recipes, he’s in some ways freed to make things up in a way he wouldn’t feel able to do if he had the books open before him, and how it’s loos­ened (and per­haps made more deli­cious?) his cook­ing in a way he hadn’t ever expected.  But he also talks about miss­ing the books and miss­ing all the lit­tle dis­cov­er­ies that you make as you’re look­ing for some­thing else while you’re read­ing– that one piece of wis­dom you weren’t hop­ing to find, that author’s cer­tain com­mand­ment, that a-ha moment when you find some­thing that just inspires you in a way you haven’t been inspired before.

The fact that he could resort to the Inter­net for the indi­vid­ual recipes didn’t allow for that bit, not at all.

I know just what he means.  The art of the browse, the soak­ing up of the author’s aes­thetic, the “get” of the feel– the dribs and drabs of the Inter­net age (and I’m not talk­ing about e-books, because those are dif­fer­ent, much as the aes­thet­ics of paper and flip­ping through things are a dif­fer­ent sub­ject and essay entirely) don’t allow for the reader to just mar­i­nate in the wis­dom of Judy Rodgers’ Zuni Cafe Cook­book (and I know exactly which recipe Wells refers to in his col­umn, it’s a rub I use on all of my meats, it almost seems like, the thing is mag­i­cal, really) and her bril­liant idea of dry-brining her poul­try and meats.  You have to read the book most of the way through, or at least sit down with it for a while and really have a good graze in order to get it, get her– it’s sim­ple, in some ways, but in other ways not, because she’s insis­tent on the absolute best, and there are cer­tain com­mand­ments, cer­tain things you always must do.

It’s that way with lots of my favorite cook­book writ­ers and authors.  Julia Child, Deb­o­rah Madi­son, Susan Her­mann Loomis, Jacques Pepin, Dorie Greenspan, Amanda Hesser, David Lebovitz, Molly Stevens, Nigel Slater, Eliz­a­beth David, Simon Hop­kin­son, Clau­dia Roden, Mark Bittman.  I don’t always cook from their books, but I own most of the things that they’ve writ­ten.  Hell– I don’t often cook from their books, because by this point, I’m a pretty good cook, and I don’t really need recipes to come up with some­thing to eat.

What I need, though, is the reminders– the aes­thet­ics, the inspi­ra­tions, the ideas that prompted me to cook in the first place.  When I look at my fridge and say “ugh,” because I don’t know what to cook, don’t feel inspired, I can return to my very full cook­book shelves and pull down one of my books, even at ran­dom, and page through the index, look­ing for wis­dom to hit me broad­side again.  My cook­ing isn’t one style, and it’s because of these authors– but it’s some­thing unique, drawn from all of their pages.  With­out hav­ing flipped through all those indices, all of those mul­ti­ple books’ mul­ti­ple pages– some­times in bed, since I’m obses­sive like that, I wouldn’t be the cook that I am.

So, Mr. Wells, I hope you get your cook­books unpacked soon– and when you do, I hope your new sense of being less tied to recipes lets you draw inspi­ra­tion wher­ever you will, and return to your beloveds as often as needed.  Because every flour coated,  oil-spattered page is far more beloved than any lap­top perched on a microwave with a recipe open from some perfectly-respectable-but-it’s-not-the-same-thing-at-all-Internet-recipe-site.

Long live the phys­i­cal cookbook.

We finally had a long-ish week­end away. We spent the week­end in Province­town, at the tip of Cape Cod. There was walk­ing– and eat­ing greasy Por­tuguese sand­wiches for break­fast includ­ing a custardy-yum pasteis de nata and fab­u­lous fish and chips for din­ner one night and another HOMGYUM break­fast oh, there was laugh­ing and talk­ing and just so much time together. A good time was had. Most def­i­nitely.  I’ve got hun­dreds of pic­tures, includ­ing some lovely long walks at the beach, but Provincetown’s not all just that.  There were some really inter­est­ing chairs, for example.

I know.  Chairs, right?

There were light fix­tures, dogs and boats, too.  And of course, there was the beach.  And the flow­ers.  The whole set is here if you’re feel­ing like you just can­nae wait for the stories.

(Also– shame­less plug is totally shame­less.  The bak­ery and the totally-NOT-twee as-I’d-expected tea house we stopped at in Sand­wich on the way back were fea­tured in this book which you should come buy at MY store in Chest­nut Hill because we’re hav­ing a con­test all over the state and I want to win, damnit.  And it’s a good book– so far, the rec­om­men­da­tions seem to be sound.  J/K.  You could buy it online or at your local retailer of books, etc., but it’s still a good book.)

Last week, I was email­ing with a friend– she was hav­ing a hard time, and I sent her this poem.  I was minded of it again this morn­ing, on my drive back from the Trader Joe’s, as I was pick­ing up a house­warm­ing gift for our hosts for a week­end away.

Mary Oliver’s “Mind­ful”, from Why I Wake Early-

Every day
I see or hear
some­thing
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light
It was what I was born for–
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world–
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy
and accla­ma­tion.
Nor am I talk­ing
about the exceptional,

the fear­ful, the dread­ful,
the very extrav­a­gant–
but of the ordi­nary,
the com­mon, the very drab,

the daily pre­sen­ta­tions.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teach­ings
as these–
the untrim­ma­ble light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

There was a motor scooter behind me in traf­fic, rid­den by a man in a dark plaid shirt and khakis.  He had on a hel­met, wore loafer-like shoes.  They were Clarks or Mer­rells or some­thing sen­si­ble– prac­ti­cal– com­fort­able.  He was headed toward Boston’s med­ical area, and could have been any­thing, any­one.  A doc­tor, an admin, the per­son who cures can­cer or dia­betes or just keeps your med­ical records in order.  As the lights cycled and changed, he came up on my right, then pulled to the left and in front of me.

On the back of his hel­met he bore a prayer made out of grass, the thing that killed me with delight. He’d dec­o­rated his sen­si­ble, full-headed hel­met, com­plete with a visor, with the fol­low­ing sticker:

So… that wannabe writer thing?  I’ve been work­ing (qui­etly, shh, because even putting them here on the blog counts as pub­li­ca­tion) on some actual, real-live orig­i­nal fic­tion.  And I’ve finally got­ten the ovaries to start send­ing them out to peo­ple for rejec­tion con­sid­er­a­tion for real, live publication.

I do have a few peo­ple I can send them to for review­ing and edit­ing, but … for exam­ple, I send a flash fic­tion piece to my Dad, an invet­er­ate reader, and his com­ment was “you should con­tinue with this.”  Which is a back­handed com­pli­ment, sure, but it’s flash fic­tion.  1000 words was the point.

So, do any of you dear read­ers want to take some pieces for an occa­sional test drive?  You don’t need to feel the need to be an edi­tor, say– but I’d love to just get some feed­back about whether the piece feels real and sincere.

I don’t have any­thing right now that needs read­ing, but if you’re up for it, just leave a com­ment!  And thanks!

Some­times, she feels like an air traf­fic con­troller, and wishes that instead of the Head Cashier phone she most times does not carry (too heavy, too clunky, and most days, well, eh, she just doesn’t need it and the ring­ing of the lines she does not have to answer is just plain annoy­ing) she had a lit­tle head­set and radio, because she sure does a lot of wav­ing and point­ing and hey, she could make it look cute.

Either that, or she’s an aer­o­bics instruc­tor with a group of par­tic­u­larly recal­ci­trant stu­dents, because they just kind of stare before wan­der­ing off.

Up, way off to the left, for Bibles, New Age and biogra­phies.  (Yes, sir, mem­oirs are there, too.  Yes, they’re like auto­bi­ogra­phies.  Really.  I promise.)  Over the cafe.  Way over there?  See– where the man in the cap’s pour­ing cof­fee?  It’s right above that.  You just need to go upstairs and then head over the cafe.  How?  Well– (move arms back toward the mid­dle, point more) the stairs and esca­la­tor are here, in the mid­dle.  (Like, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE, because it’s the first thing the unat­tended tod­dlers run for.)

Bath­room?  One arm ele­gantly (well, she thinks so, she did paint her nails) points– “between the stairs and the esca­la­tor, all the way back through the kids, to the left of the elephant.”

Percy Jack­son?  Harry Pot­ter?  War­riors?  Twi­light?  Those would be in Favorite Series or Teen, all in the kids’ sec­tion in back, straight back on the right behind the bar­gain bays– and her arm points straightly for­ward, jut­ting com­mand­ingly that way.  The inter­roga­tors look con­fused.  “Bar­gain?” ask they.

Yes.  Those signs, there, where it says ‘Bar­gain’?  Favorite series and Teen are right behind that.”

Ah.”  They head off, ignor­ing the giant dis­play areas she’s just pointed toward.  Read­ers.  Deaf, dumb and blind.

Study aids?”  Words indi­cate the use of the esca­la­tor, fol­lowed by an arm hook to the right, a hand flap walk mid­way through the free­stand­ing aisles of the store, and then stop.

Art and col­lectibles?”  The well-manicured hand points merely up.  Same thing for coins, home-improvement, photography.

Travel?”

Over the door?”  This one is funny.  Peo­ple always look up, like they’re expect­ing the whole sec­tion to come crash­ing down on them, right then and right there.  They also say “Oh, you moved it.”  Well, yes, they did– but before I came to the store, and that was last Sep­tem­ber, you see.  Appar­ently change is never allowed.  Ever, you see.

Then there’s the bus­tle of bring­ing up boxes of reg­is­ter tape, bring­ing down tills at the end of the day, the lift-one-two-three of bas­kets of books over the counter from shop­pers buy­ing lots of books and do-you-have-a-membership-sir (It’s our exer­cise mantra, repeat it in time with your breath­ing) and the wrestling of boxes of bags onto the shelves so that each register’s got enough sup­plies to suf­fo­cate a small army.

Don’t you have paper?”

God, no, we don’t have paper bags.  Do you know how much that shit would weigh to carry up the damned stairs?

Sure, we’ve got hand trucks and v-carts and other car­ry­ing carts, but one or two at a time when we need them, it’s quick­est to carry, fastest to bust her butt down to the base­ment and get that reg­is­ter paper because of course Cafe and three and five are all out at the same time so she’s got to can­ni­bal­ize six and four for paper for them to use in the mean­time and then while she’s gone, there are three peo­ple want­ing returns all stacked up in the line, so that twenty pound box she lugged up the stairs is just going to wait while she, now lightly sweaty, turns smil­ing to say– “How can I help you?”

No reciepts, sure.  No prob­lem. (Hah, hah.)

And then there’s the older fel­lows and ladies, the ones who want that one book and stop off at her cashier sta­tion rather than go on upstairs because– well– they’re frail and old and maybe they know her and then, too, there’s the fact that per­haps the per­son work­ing cus­tomer ser­vice that day is not the best one of the lot.  So the elderly-frail asks for a book and she knows just where it is and there’s no one in line.  If she calls up to the desk, there’s a 50–50 chance the assigned person’s not going to be there, regard­less, and if she does call, they’ll take a longer time than it will if she–

… she’s up the stairs and back down with the book from the New in Hard­cover Bay faster than it takes her brain to decide.  It’s a pretty small store for a chain, after all.  The desk per­son didn’t even look up from their task.

That done, it’s time to re-do the gift cards, the ones brought up in a small series of boxes because the cart they’re all on is a beast and push­ing it up on the ele­va­tor, nav­i­gat­ing it through the gaunt­let of kids (“Do you work here?” has got to be the world’s dumb­est ques­tion.  No, she’s just ran­domly push­ing a cart full of ill-balanced col­or­ful boxes of gift cards for kicks through nar­row aisles full of peo­ple who won’t get out of her way no mat­ter how many times she says excuse me, because this is what she means when she calls it the gaunt­let of kids), and those are all bal­anced on arms like jug­gling balls and other accou­trements.  The gift card dis­plays, see, they’ve got to be up to stan­dard, and that means cer­tain pat­terns and that means LOTS of selec­tions of cards which means PLEASE SIR DO NOT TOUCH HER ON THE SHOULDER WHILE SHE IS HOLDING THESE BOXES BECAUSE NOW THEY WILL SPILL ALL OVER THE FLOOR AND THEN, ESPECIALLY THEN, DO NOT LOOK AT HER LIKE THE DUMBFUCK THAT YOU ARE.

And then, please don’t ask her your ques­tion while she’s clean­ing up.  Puh-leaze.

The infor­ma­tion desk is at the top of the stairs.”

But I want to ask you,” says the unhelp­ful, gift-card spilling jerkface.

Sir, I am busy.”  Turns her back, squats, and the cal­is­then­ics begin all over again.  “The infor­ma­tion desk is at the top of the stairs.”  For good mea­sure, with good flex­i­bil­ity, and while scoop­ing some of the cards back into their boxes, she throws one arm over her shoul­der, thumb toward the esca­la­tor, point­ing in the per­fect direction.

Don’t even get her started on the bend-twist-flap-insert three-hundred-thirty-five times on aver­age of each bag insert for each book trans­ac­tion when she bends down to go get a bag and a leaflet insert, or the ten­nis– NO– cashier’s elbow she’s going to have from all the seri­ous mus­cles in her right hand from all that hand-keying and card swip­ing.  The cans she can crush with her right hand, peo­ple.  This shit is (not) seri­ous, yo.

By all rights, she should be built like Linda Hamil­ton in T2.  She’s not, but a cus­tomer did com­pli­ment her hair just the other day, so hey– she’ll take what she can get.  And in the mean­time?  Her calves are SOLID.

Deb at Smit­ten Kitchen had this recipe for Shak­shuka, an Israeli Spicy Tomato Stew with Poached Eggs that I really wanted to try.  See, it looked really easy, a one pot dish that you built by lay­er­ing fla­vors, and when the stew was basi­cally done, you popped in a few eggs and poached them in the cooked liq­uid, then spooned them out into bowls, sprin­kled them over with feta and pars­ley and voila, BOOM, dinner.

See?  Doesn’t it look just yummy?

It was just that easy, and ooh, it was awe­some.  Espe­cially because I tried this new Rhode Island feta that I bought at the Ded­ham Whole Foods.  But for those of you who don’t like poached eggs, the stew base is deli­cious and spicy and yum.   I made it with 2 jalapenos, not three, and did the jalapenos, not the Ana­heim Chiles.  If you’re not a fan of poached eggs,  you could totally poach some fish or scal­lops or shrimp in the liq­uid, or just add more feta.  (Yes, Jenn, I tried it with­out the egg for break­fast this morn­ing.  It’s awe­some with­out the egg and just a lit­tle more cheese.)

I did devi­ate from Deb’s recipe in one way.  She sug­gests you serve it with pita, and I didn’t do that since I’m try­ing to get back to gluten-free eat­ing.  What I did instead is make socca.

Socca?  What’s this?  It’s chickpea-flour flat­bread, made from Bob’s Red Mill chick­pea flour I bought at my co-op.  Bob’s rocks, plain and sim­ple.  I keep the open pack­ages in the freezer in a ziploc after they’re open, since the bean flours tend to go ran­cid.  Here’s what it looked like, after it baked.

My recipe is based on the one in Fran McCullough’s Liv­ing Low Carb, page 135.  Since I mod­i­fied it a bit, I’ll post it here.

1 cup room tem­per­a­ture water
2/3 c chick­pea flour
3 tbsps extra vir­gin olive oil
1 tsp salt
5–6 grinds fresh black pep­per
Penzey’s rose­mary pow­der and/or finely chopped dried or fresh rose­mary nee­dles, at least 1/4 tsp.

Mix all ingre­di­ents in a bowl, whisk­ing until all lumps are gone.  Let sit for one hour.

Pre­heat oven to 500F.  In some­thing smaller than a sheet pan (this is why mine looks uneven and ragged, all the right pans for this recipe hap­pened to be dirty last night)– you want some­thing more like a round pizza pan or a 10–12 inch oven-proof skil­let, oil the pan with more olive oil, pour the bat­ter, then put it in to bake until set, approx. 6 minutes.

Turn on the broiler, take out the socca and spray/drizzle the top with more oil before putting it under the heat to crisp until golden brown, 3–5 min­utes.  Sprin­kle with salt and pep­per if you like (I didn’t, because I like my bat­ter pre-seasoned, I don’t think it needs any more), cut into wedges, and serve.

I go to ther­apy not far from Fen­way Park and Ken­more Square, a land of ample metered park­ing.  Usu­ally.  But it’s base­ball sea­son, and as I came out of my ses­sion, the SUVs were roam­ing like mad cat­tle, foam­ing and froth­ing and honk­ing and worst of all, NOT USING THEIR SIGNALS TO INDICATE LANE CHANGES.  (Care­ful there, E., your pet peeves are showing.)

I got to my car, got in, turned on the igni­tion, and had not yet even turned on my blinker when bang, one SUV WHIZ backed up right on top of me and BANG another crept up behind, both of them glar­ing at one another so hard that they com­pletely ignored that between them, they’d made it impos­si­ble for me to get out of the space, because each of them had encroached at least six inches along­side my bumpers in an effort to claim the whole space.

I tried look­ing at one.  Then I tried to look at the other.  I honked my horn, even, because in Boston, this is uni­ver­sal for “Get out of the way, one of you ass­holes, because I can’t fuck­ing get out of the space.”  I also glared over my glasses.

Appar­ently, they were both from the sub­urbs and did not com­pre­hend, because nei­ther one budged. I there­fore got out of the car.  After all, I had fif­teen min­utes more on the meter, and there’s a lovely cof­fee place not that far away.

blc’s not going out, in a man­ner of speak­ing.  And Red Sox fans?  Don’t fence me in.  (I love Bing & the Andrews’ Sis­ters’ ver­sion too, but ooh, David Byrne.  How can you not love David Byrne singing that song?)

Mr. Frost relates that “Some­thing there is that doesn’t love a wall” and the con­trary opin­ion, “Good fences make good neigh­bors,” in his poem Mend­ing Wall– it seems to be frost heaves and win­ter and grav­ity, the upheavals of win­ter, weather and cows.  He talks not of insid­i­ous creep­ers like ivy or bit­ter­sweet vine that grows thick and wild in the wood and with its gor­geous color and tap­roots digs into stone and cement and tears things apart, instead talks about things seen such as Hunters and unseen like Elves that his more prac­ti­cal neigh­bor is unlikely to humor.

The poem, on its face, is about their once-a-year meet­ing and mend­ing of stones that have fallen over the win­ter from sources known and unknown, how they nearly need magic and have to work hard and closely together to get it all bal­anced between them again.  Frost’s char­ac­ter won­ders at the old-fashioned stolid­ness of his neighbor–

There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.

and then

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Some­thing there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’

before his final reflection:

He moves in dark­ness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s say­ing,
And he likes hav­ing thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

I used to agree with Frost’s mis­chief, because wouldn’t you want to be open to peo­ple, as open as pos­si­ble? Now I think more like the neigh­bor– ironic in a woman who keeps a blog and bares large parts of her life open to stranger as the only real means she has of real self-reflection.  And yet.   There are things I don’t share, and bound­aries I am try­ing to repair.

I’ve been think­ing about energy con­ser­va­tion and bound­aries and walls of the per­sonal type, namely those of time spent with fam­ily and friends.  How much is enough?  How much becomes too much?  I have always been a per­son who lives too much in my head, and clearly too much intro­spec­tion is quite bad for me, but at the same time, I have a ten­dency to be socially anx­ious and awk­ward (when I’m not being hypo­manic and there­fore incred­i­bly funny and witty and charm­ing and ON, which in itself is a bit of an iden­tity cri­sis, because I know it’s not my default state, so hey, yeah, no, I’m not really that funny all of the time.)  I’ve been feel­ing much bet­ter from my most recent crash and resur­gence, but work­ing retail’s exhaust­ing and I’m often sub­ver­bal when I come home at the end of the day and I don’t always have two days off in a row.  It leaves me one day to myself, often taken up with errands and doctor’s appoint­ments.  Spend it with friends?  Or take that time to myself?

And if I spend it with friends?  I feel guilty, only see­ing them for two or three hours, but still– I get tired.  Over­stim­u­lated, exhausted and all-of-a-sudden-bratty-short-tempered even when I’m with just one per­son, because it’s a lot of focus to pay all that atten­tion to some­one else still at this time– and the fact is, I’m still not quite myself.  I’m still rebuild­ing all my social mus­cles.  It’s good to get out, to see peo­ple, to get re-acquainted, to re-make con­nec­tions, to decide even whether to keep them, because peo­ple do change and good­ness knows that I am chang­ing each day, but still– I am try­ing to be care­ful, to bal­ance those stones on the wall so they don’t fall imme­di­ately over.

So yes– there is some­thing in me that doesn’t love a wall, because part of me would love to have all the energy in the world to spend all day with you and more, to laugh and hang out and chat and do what­ever you want– but part of me still needs to wall myself in, wall out all your well-meaning ques­tions and needs, because, well– I’m still tired and frag­ile and I am not yet ready for a whole day of walk­ing the prop­erty lines, talk­ing of hunters and elves and agree­ing with you that yes, there is noth­ing there to take offence at, and if even you did have cows, they could roam at will.

Every­day truth, though, is never so sim­ple, and that bit­ter­sweet vine is a pain to pull out if your wall’s not care­fully tended– even if it is pretty to con­tem­plate as you sit all alone in your hut in the fall, watch­ing it blos­som and grow.  Leav­ing it there all on its own ’til the spring will only bring trouble.

Unre­lated and yet not:  This arti­cle in yesterday’s NYT about cen­sor­ing your own life online.


You were 33 when you had me and tried for long years to do so because I was wanted– that’s what you said in the red leather-gilt jour­nal you gave me.  I read it once all the way through, have read it a few times since then, haven’t read it much recently, and maybe it’s time.

You were 35 when you had my brother and wanted him too.

I was 27 when I put a name on this thing that was name­less for years but that caused me such pain.  You were 63 and your break was sharper than mine but both of us wal­lowed and mired for years, up and down, nei­ther one of us truly happy for long.  At age 31 or there­abouts you really hurt me (and maybe I really hurt you) and we didn’t talk for a while.  After a while I picked up the phone when you kept call­ing and I started answer­ing as you talked about what was hap­pen­ing with you when I asked.  Some­times I vol­un­teered things about me whether you asked or you didn’t.  It hurt, but I talked to you any­way, know­ing in my head that you tried even as my heart didn’t believe it.  I was about 33 when that hap­pened, the same age you were when I was born.

Now I’m 35 and late to the game and in my second-third-fourth-I’ve-lost-count adult-breakdown-rebirth (though I’d hardly call this spring’s mind-labor nearly so painful as last year’s, and isn’t that what they say about child-birth, it’s not as bad as the first ) I’m real­iz­ing the sim­ple truth of some­thing I saw and heard in a movie.  “Hurt peo­ple hurt peo­ple.” Nature or nur­ture, both of us hurt, and we may hurt in the future.  If we do, if you do, if I do, I’m sorry for that in advance, and I want you to know that I’m try­ing.  And I want you to know that I know and believe, not just with my head, but my heart, for the first time, that you’re try­ing, that you always were try­ing, whether or not you failed or suc­ceeded, and that it’s the try­ing that matters.

You asked me, back when I was about 33 and we were first talk­ing again, that you hoped some­day I would for­give you, and I want you to know that now, a lit­tle bit late (but bet­ter than never), I think I understand.

There’s noth­ing to for­give, there’s only to try.  And I will.

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