“It’s a shame that the only thing a man can do for eight hours a day is work. He can’t eat for eight hours; he can’t drink for eight hours; he can’t make love for eight hours. The only thing a man can do for eight hours is work.”
“You don’t love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults.”
“She was bored. She loved, had capacity to love, for love, to give and accept love. Only she tried twice and failed twice to find somebody not just strong enough to deserve it, earn it, match it, but even brave enough to accept it.”
William Faulkner
I woke up a little after six this morning. I ate my breakfast of eggs, waffles, and bacon, and have been doing some light editing and writing for the past hour or so. I’m debating whether or not I want to go to Oxford today, and if so, when? I’d like to get in a few miles on the treadmill. This is where my mind goes – how to do x before y so that the day turns out like z. What does a day in Oxford look like? Will I have enough to do? Too little to do? I don’t want to leave too late and I don’t want to leave too early. Do I stay for lunch and dinner? And of course… where will I park? Is there parking in Oxford? These are all really stupidly mundane questions. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place that didn’t have parking – yet it’s a thing for me. And while the “worry” isn’t really a worry – these are the questions that make me antsy to leave or convince me to stay. My ex-fiancee, B, once told me she hated living with me. I probably tried to hide these types of concerns, my mild anxiety, but as I sit here thinking through my list of questions, the many reasons to just stay home and write and exercise and do what’s comfortable, I kinda hate living with me too. If I’m being honest, it’s really not that bad – I’m writing about it to expand the sensations a bit. Those things very much run through my head, but usually not to the point of stopping me or holding me back. I love these type of adventures. I’m going to skip the run (I think) so that I can enjoy my morning of coffee and reading and writing (and I’ve run every day this week). I’ll get on the road sometime between 10 and 11. I plan to walk around the campus of Ole Miss, visit Faulkner’s house (hence the opening quotes) and spend some time downtown. It looks like there are some nice parks and green spaces, but it’s cold…. I love an adventure – it was something B and I were really getting good at (Asbury Park, Baltimore, Philly neighborhoods, Hidden River Brewing).
Aside from a short story or two, I’m not sure I’ve read much Faulkner. I think I got a good bit of the way through As I Lay Dying. I know I’ve tried The Sound and the Fury a few times, but couldn’t follow along. Difficult books have been a source of shame for me. I’m supposed to be a fairly well-educated English major. I worked for one of the most brilliant literary critics in the world. I have not been able to crack some of the difficult books (The Sound and the Fury, Ulysses, Finnegans Wake, Gravity’s Rainbow). Although, looking at the Buzzfeed list, I’ve managed, and enjoyed, a few of the challenging books (One Hundred Years of Solitude, Blood Meridian, Infinite Jest).
In thinking about books – I’m thinking about the Neruda volume that was shared the other night. I’m thinking about Jessica and her story – how the book inscribed to her partner, her love, ended up in a used book shop. At the reading we joked, that maybe they’re still together. Maybe they had two copies of the book and got rid of the wrong one – this is a point of contention for them, a minor argument with hints of playfulness every time it comes up. I’m thinking I might start a collection of inscribed books – it could be a section of a book shop – found inscriptions. You too can own someone else’s love, pain, and deepest thoughts.
When B moved in with me, we were going through some old boxes. We came across my Dr. Seuss books – I loved Dr. Seuss – had read all of them by the time I was in Kindergarten. One of my dad’s favorite stories is of me walking in to school with a stack of books and my teacher saying, “Oh Matt, I don’t have time to read all of those books to you…” and I replied, “No, I’m going to read them to you.” I cringe when my dad tells that story – it’s exactly the child he wanted, and precisely the person I’ve avoided being (though secretly, I have my “look at me” or “see what I did” moments). Mrs. Carver was her name – as I remember, she was sweet and proper and a gentle woman – exactly what you’d expect from a Kindergarten teacher. As B and I were going through those books, I saw one of the inscriptions – which was less of an inscription and more of a chronicle. The book is packed away here in my apartment – I’m half tempted to dig it out – just because I want to get the words right…. It said something like “Matt finally finished this book on….” I don’t know if it was the hard impressions my dad’s writing made on the page, the sharp and decisive way his letters and words took shape, but that word “finally” had all of the disappointment and exasperation of the world written in to it. B and I looked at each other – I probably called him an ass. I had never shared a moment like that with anyone. For as long as we were together, I don’t think my ex-wife ever knew the dynamics of my childhood. In a few short months, B knew me deeper than just about anyone. I had forgotten those inscriptions, forgotten that the catalog of accomplishment and failure even existed. In fact, I had forgotten about that shared moment with B in my garage until just now.
I’m hoping to use that narrative technique in some longer form writing. I liked how Veronica took place in a day (so does Ulysses) yet through memory and recollection spans a lifetime. As I set out on my mini-journey today, I’m going to try to pay attention to the thoughts and memories that drift across my mind. I’m going to try to notice what sights and sounds and smells trigger them. If I’m being honest, I’ll be lucky if I catch a small fraction of my thoughts. It is easy, and appropriate, to get lost in the moment. To sing along to the song, or to turn the radio down as I look for where to park – as though I need to concentrate that hard on signs and bearings. All of that is also part of the process – blending the present images of sun reflecting off of a swinging sign just above the doorway of an eclectic coffee shop or how the sidewalk is mostly white with a few mottled spots of old gum ground flat and petrified with other cities other coffee shops other gum-stained sidewalks. Proust had his madeleine moment – I’m on the lookout for mine.