RIGHT NOW, forever
I have never looked for utopia on a map. Of course, I believe in human advancement. I believe in medicine, in astrophysics, in washing machines. But my compass takes its cardinal point from tragedy. If I respond to the metaphor of spring, I nevertheless learned, years ago, from my Mexican parents, from my Irish nuns, to count on winter. The point of Eden for me, for us, is not approach but expulsion.
Richard Rodriguez, “Late Victorians”

This summer, when the streets were still quiet and the coffee shops empty, before the sea of school colors on football game Saturdays and the resurfaced problems of living somewhere where there seems to be no privacy at all, I was working on a theory about loneliness. It went something like this: that loneliness is either, like boredom, a failure of imagination or else just as normal as winters when you’re always a little bit hungry or summers when you’re always a little bit low on funds. The theory was that seeing people make a preoccupation out of avoiding loneliness at whatever cost, because it’s seen as something unusual or wrong or taboo, was at best frustrating, at worst demoralizing. I was not lonely this summer––I would never say that I have been, though, except maybe occasionally in the company of others––which made this both an interesting, useful, and absurd time to be thinking about this. Or maybe not, because another theory I had was about a failure to interrogate the things that make us happy as much as the things that make us sad.

I also worked on a theory about the word “heartbreak,” the way that this designation so often goes unquestioned, like you’re supposed to understand that because of whatever configuration of people, that because you used to share a bed or had a lot of conversations at one time, this is all that needs to be said. I worked on a theory about mistaking time spent for intimacy or sincerity for seriousness or maybe it was just the opposite. I worked on these and other theories––lying in bed at night, during late night talks on the marble benches outside my house, or while holding painful plank pose until I couldn’t anymore––because I thought that if I could present my ideas to others coherently, maybe I would feel less alone in them, since ideas are probably the only capacity in which I ever feel alone. But mostly what I have found, on both sides of the equation, is that it almost never works that way. I also worked on these theories because I had a lot of time, which is a preposterous problem, a summer problem, in a way an Iowa problem.

Now it’s that peculiar time of year when the weather has not caught up to the reality of it, to the sunny, humid hours I’m supposed to send doing specific things at specific times in specific, usually windowless places. I’m the kind of person who is sometimes called “self-motivated,” a description I’ve never really understood the exact meaning of, although if it is about an inner propulsion motivated by a kind of terror of being unoccupied, I guess it makes sense, but in any case, summer was a time to spend with no motivations except ones of my own devising, and so the external directives of fall always take me by surprise: it is, I think, a good thing that this was probably my last first week of school forever.

I don’t mean to sound sharp, although I also don’t really mind if I do: I will say that outside last night, the sky turned its Iowa early fall nighttime blue, although it’s really an anywhere early fall nighttime blue, this is just where I am and what I can see, and I walked with the relief of the end of a long but not necessarily fruitful day through the buzzing twilight to meet a friend for a drink. I’m not used to looking up while I walk again, to there being any company moving through these streets. The bar is always brighter than I remember and a lot louder, which is just as well, because some nights you need to scream a little over the music at the people you love. The main way I’ve always known to love is to fight––I don’t have imaginary conversations in my head, I have arguments; I’ve rarely learned a thing in relation to other people, only in opposition––and so a strained, urgent voice feels more like intimacy to me than anything else. The things I say quietly or tenderly never seem as believable, not to me, not to the people listening, at least if they know me well, which is maybe why the ones I get along with best are also part-time letter writers, people who generally although not always type things out to figure them out.

"Every so often you will go nuts. All of a sudden the cornfields get you."
I moved to Iowa two years ago today, which means it’s also my two year anniversary of living alone, in honor of which I changed three lightbulbs this morning. It’s been two years of brisk walks up the hill of Dodge Street late at night after whiskeys at George’s, so I had three or five of those this week, and two years of what Helen and I refer to as “porch sits,” even though that porch swing ceased to be ours on August 1st, when Helen moved to the house next door. This year I stopped taking naps and started swimming and––believe it or not––I went on a date to shoot rifles and convictions about gun control aside, it was, I think, the best date I’ve been on. Mostly, though, the last seven hundred and thirty days have been spent in the ongoing and ultimately perhaps futile process of “figuring things out” and also reading and writing, a preposterous life for sure, lucky and dismal, and even though it’s not over, I already know I’d do it all again if I could. I’m thinking about what Hannah says about being sincere, even though it feels a little silly and profoundly un-grad school to be grateful for your circumstances in this way, even though it feels counter to my whole cynical constitution, even though everything I say here is true.

"Every so often you will go nuts. All of a sudden the cornfields get you."

I moved to Iowa two years ago today, which means it’s also my two year anniversary of living alone, in honor of which I changed three lightbulbs this morning. It’s been two years of brisk walks up the hill of Dodge Street late at night after whiskeys at George’s, so I had three or five of those this week, and two years of what Helen and I refer to as “porch sits,” even though that porch swing ceased to be ours on August 1st, when Helen moved to the house next door. This year I stopped taking naps and started swimming and––believe it or not––I went on a date to shoot rifles and convictions about gun control aside, it was, I think, the best date I’ve been on. Mostly, though, the last seven hundred and thirty days have been spent in the ongoing and ultimately perhaps futile process of “figuring things out” and also reading and writing, a preposterous life for sure, lucky and dismal, and even though it’s not over, I already know I’d do it all again if I could. I’m thinking about what Hannah says about being sincere, even though it feels a little silly and profoundly un-grad school to be grateful for your circumstances in this way, even though it feels counter to my whole cynical constitution, even though everything I say here is true.

When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life.
from “Peanut Butter” by Eileen Myles
There are three physical things about Catherine that I miss during the long stretches I now have to go without seeing her: the amused way she stares at you while she pulls out her tangled hair and discards it on the floor, the creepy way she makes intensive eye contact while chugging an entire vessel of water, and the way she blows her nose that somehow involves her entire face. How well do you have to know someone––that you’re not sleeping with––to have a list of the physical things you miss about them? I don’t think I could make a list like that for half the people I have slept with, but then again I didn’t know any of them as long as I’ve known Catherine. Or maybe it’s not how long you’ve known a person but specifically the fact of intimacy that isn’t accompanied by sex that makes you more observant of them––the intense sense of noticing is the platonic equivalent of physical intimacy.

I remember outfits worn (gold tights, red jacket, meeting at Union Square) and songs listened to (at the coffee shop in our college town, the playlist for the seven nights she spent with me in the hospital when I was sick) and I remember very particular things she said, and text messages from phones long lost or defunct. I remember stories from her childhood (what she wore for Halloween one year, her freshman year boyfriend), although I didn’t know her then, and I think sometimes that I remember her past better than my own. The more I commodify my own past, parcel it into chapters and give it away, the more it means to be privy to someone else’s life like this, a private one, in a way my most important one. Incidentally, ours has been the one relationship I’ve had the most trouble writing about, the only one I haven’t really put up for public consumption. 

People seem surprised when I tell them that being with my best friend feels like being in love, even though it’s distinctly different––platonic––but how insufficient a word that can seem when our conversations can become deeply intimate without prelude, or when we wake up with the similar sighs to greet the world, one of the many habits––those oofs and ahs––that you acquire from the person who has been present for your entire adulthood, your entire becoming. Catherine is the person who taught me to make a roux, to cut my bangs, to interrogate every decision and desire in a way that is productive but not neurotic––and though I’ve met many people who can do the former two, I have met very few who do the latter, and who understand that a life left uninterrogated is not one I want to live. She promised years ago, before it seemed like I’d even move to Iowa, that if I did she would come visit, and how miraculous it is that she did, but also somehow not surprising at all.

There are three physical things about Catherine that I miss during the long stretches I now have to go without seeing her: the amused way she stares at you while she pulls out her tangled hair and discards it on the floor, the creepy way she makes intensive eye contact while chugging an entire vessel of water, and the way she blows her nose that somehow involves her entire face. How well do you have to know someone––that you’re not sleeping with––to have a list of the physical things you miss about them? I don’t think I could make a list like that for half the people I have slept with, but then again I didn’t know any of them as long as I’ve known Catherine. Or maybe it’s not how long you’ve known a person but specifically the fact of intimacy that isn’t accompanied by sex that makes you more observant of them––the intense sense of noticing is the platonic equivalent of physical intimacy.

I remember outfits worn (gold tights, red jacket, meeting at Union Square) and songs listened to (at the coffee shop in our college town, the playlist for the seven nights she spent with me in the hospital when I was sick) and I remember very particular things she said, and text messages from phones long lost or defunct. I remember stories from her childhood (what she wore for Halloween one year, her freshman year boyfriend), although I didn’t know her then, and I think sometimes that I remember her past better than my own. The more I commodify my own past, parcel it into chapters and give it away, the more it means to be privy to someone else’s life like this, a private one, in a way my most important one. Incidentally, ours has been the one relationship I’ve had the most trouble writing about, the only one I haven’t really put up for public consumption.

People seem surprised when I tell them that being with my best friend feels like being in love, even though it’s distinctly different––platonic––but how insufficient a word that can seem when our conversations can become deeply intimate without prelude, or when we wake up with the similar sighs to greet the world, one of the many habits––those oofs and ahs––that you acquire from the person who has been present for your entire adulthood, your entire becoming. Catherine is the person who taught me to make a roux, to cut my bangs, to interrogate every decision and desire in a way that is productive but not neurotic––and though I’ve met many people who can do the former two, I have met very few who do the latter, and who understand that a life left uninterrogated is not one I want to live. She promised years ago, before it seemed like I’d even move to Iowa, that if I did she would come visit, and how miraculous it is that she did, but also somehow not surprising at all.

Tags: this is a blog about female friendship most of all
Tags: politics the morning news
themorningnews:

A Marxist upbringing, graduating into a recession, and a lineage of missed opportunities make a brutal combination.
"Thoroughly Modern Marxism" by Lucy Morris

themorningnews:

A Marxist upbringing, graduating into a recession, and a lineage of missed opportunities make a brutal combination.

"Thoroughly Modern Marxism" by Lucy Morris

When you live in a place in the way that I live in Iowa––enthusiastically but sort of insincerely, because your ID and your accent are from elsewhere, and your accountant says you don’t need to officially change your residency if you’re just a student––you might know when a storm comes, but you won’t know the damage it does. You don’t read the local newspaper, so there’s no way to know that the county declared emergency after one particular storm, and the part of the river that has swelled over its banks is a long walk away for someone without a car, so it’s days before you’re driven by the submerged picnic benches, the washed-out baseball diamond.

We drove down the highway to the bigger city, but not the biggest city, to see a baseball game. The Cedar Rapid Kernels were playing Wisconsin and I said, absentmindedly, my principles accidentally showing and not at all to be cute, “Which team should I vote for?” Sweet corn was just a dollar that night, hot and wrapped in foil, you got charcoal on your palms and the silky inner fibers fell and stuck to the canvas of your shoes when you ate it. The jumbotron man zoomed in on two of us, smiling wide with our pale cobs of corn in hand, an advertisement for the state where we live-but-don’t-live. In the pixelated photo someone snapped of our faces looming on the screen, I’m wearing pigtails and a baseball cap and I wouldn’t recognize myself if I hadn’t been there. On the car ride home we made fun of the songs, but we liked them, too, the way you like any song that comes on a car radio in summer when the mood or light or company happens to be right.

A few weeks ago and a few blocks up, lightning hit a transformer in the middle of the afternoon and the street went blue-green, all sparks and light. When the post-storm glow sets in around sunset, your eyes have to adjust every minute. Look down at your phone to read a text and you’ll miss the pink slide down the color scale toward gray––I was going to say the change is imperceptible, but actually it is not, it just is so brisk, so constant instead that the effect is the same as that. I keep running into people talking on the phone through their headphone mic while they walk, like they need their hands free to take in these sherbert skies, or maybe just to take photos of them.

Lounging on the bench outside my house at dusk, waiting for friends to come get me, I noted the kind of stillness you see only in the opening shots of certain long, emotionally fraught, excessively symbolic movies––no movement but the faint rustle of trees in the wind, no cars or people in sight. This Midwestern humidity is invasive and stultifying, makes you sense that anything could happen, but also persuades you that ultimately nothing will. It is not a weather condition in which to cut your curly hair, but of course I do that anyway. It is not a temperamental condition in which to trust anything you feel, but when have I let that stop me?

"Take me to the corn," I said. Out in the country, I spotted a frog clinging to the window, hanging on at high speed. We pulled over and a local newspaper that I’ve never read was used to transport the tiny thing over to the safety of the grass. I ate my Dairy Mart ice cream in the passenger seat, AC on full blast but not at all conscious of my increasing coldness. I swear we entered an underpass in the sun and emerged from it into rain, hydroplaning but the highway ahead still a refuge from the otherwise inescapable Sundayness of it all. I write this now like each detail was perfectly crafted for reiteration, but the dumb songs of open roads were not playing in my ears then, nor were my eyes really on the corn, nor was I thinking at the time about what a line that was, "Take me to the corn," how it evoked a David Foster Wallace line from years ago that went: "Kiss me where it smells, she said, so I took her to Allston." I’ve actually been to Allston since I first heard that sentence, and I have to say I like Iowa a lot better.

Before I even got out of bed, my death drive was acting up. Em listed, by way of consolation, the ways in which hers was too: she stayed in bed instead of dealing with a banking problem, she didn’t brush her teeth, she biked to work without a helmet. I got up, remembered to brush my teeth only because she’d mentioned it, and took myself to swim.

There is a sign at the leisure pool that says: “No long breath holding,” and there’s a drawing of a disembodied, genderless head below squiggle-lined water.

Historically, I’ve struggled with anything I didn’t understand the mechanics of or rationale behind––riding a bike, monogamy––but I can’t really comprehend the weightlessness of water, or how it’s possible to have your mouth open under there and not drown, and I still do it daily anyhow.

From the glass-walled lobby of the gym, in the middle of a thunder storm that the university alert informed me was “severe,” I ate my lunch and checked my email and watched the sky turn green, then pitch black, then get lost behind a slate of pouring gray rain. Across the street, a sign detached itself from somewhere and blew through the Kum & Go parking lot. The cranes towering over town––above the Sheraton and the Hotel Vetro and the new condo that’s now the tallest building in the city––spun spectacularly in the wind. I told myself they are built to withstand that, the way bridges are made to sway.

The moment when you begin to minimize parts of your own past: someone you slept next to nightly for years becomes “my college boyfriend,” or someone who made it impossible to sleep at night for a brief but overwhelming period becomes, “a guy I used to see.” At least once a week, I remember Vasily Grossman’s line about the impossibility of tearing something out of your heart. I think to myself now: you’d be surprised. But the other part of that passage is: “You can’t erase the imprint of years,” and that seems more accurate than ever.

Em video-chatted me minutes after I became alone in my apartment to announce that our “attachment style” is anxious because we cried a lot as children. This seems bleak and true, and as is the case with most diagnoses, a mix of relief and doom.

All of my women, writing from Brooklyn or Brazil or their apartments just across town, want to know if they should be anxious about the lack of anxiety in their relationships. I have in my head Ellen Willis’ dictum, “maximum pleasure, minimum anxiety,” but all these years of Russia-related reading have me skeptical that general principles are ever achievable.

I made Erick come meet me at the coffee shop to counsel me through the latest writing crisis, the kind of externally minor crisis I have the dumb fortune to consider personally major. He said to write this book I have to figure out who I am––”WHO AM I?” I wrote in my notebook as we talked––which is like when my brother told me that in order to learn to drive I had to get over my fear of death. I never did learn to drive, but I think a lot lately about the Muriel Spark line about writing a first novel being like falling in love but better, which in this moment also seems more like a principle than a reality, but on better days, when the preoccupation during my lap swim is with chapters and Russian words and not what it’s like to enjoy waking up next to someone for the first time in ages, it can sort of come to feel like both.



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