Joyce's Portrait

My summer is over--classes start today. It was a good summer even though I had to say goodbye to my sister, my friend moved away, and I worked in retail. Going to Argentina was a great experience, but that's all I have to say about that--let's talk about books.

I read this summer, and some of them were seriously amazing books. James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" was one of those seriously amazing reads.

Joyce's novel starts with him as a young boy listening to his father and friends of his father fight about politics.  Joyce is, of course, from Ireland; he begins to become disillusioned about the state of his country and his parents religion. He attends a Catholic boy's school. He begins to listen to the sermons. Almost 40 pages of the book was devoted to one sermon. Joyce is convicted of his unworthiness and sin, and he repents. He decides to become a Catholic priest until he is bothered by a comment one priest makes which convinces Joyce the priest is ungodly. He then breaks free from all bonds--in a rather intense scene--and sacrifices himself to art knowing that no calling is as worthy as that of an artist. That's not the bitter end, but you should read that for yourself.

I think I was expecting more of an essay than the well-crafted novel I received. The beginning felt so much like a story that I momentarily forgot that this was, in essence, a manifesto. I was surprised by the length and the in-depth nature of the sermon; Joyce clearly knew his religion.The book has five chapters only, but still is around 250 pages. Joyce relies on paragraph markings to change the subject more often than a chapter. Joyce is known for his well-written prose, so that was no surprise. Even though I knew that, I was still caught several times, by how enjoyable his prose was; his words flowed smoothly together and he used marvelous metaphors.

Joyce asks the questions that we are still struggling to answer: what is art, what is beauty, is beauty subjective, what is the difference between sublime and beautiful, what holds back art, what questions should artists be answering, should artists depict the world the way they see it or the way they wish to see it, is one more valid than another? I'm interested in the answers to these questions, or at least, what Joyce thought the answers were.

By the time Joyce finished writing this novel, he was an expatriate, an atheist, and a stranger to most of his family. He succeeded in casting off what he perceived was holding him back (country, religion, and family). According to himself, he succeeded in devoting himself solely to art and not allowing anyone or anything to distract him.

Interesting quotes:

Joyce answering a friend's question of subjective beauty:
"Though the same object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people who admire a beautiful object find in it certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages themselves of all esthetic apprehension.These relations of the sensible, visible to you through one form and to me through another, must be therefore the necessary qualities of beauty."

Joyce deciding to follow art:
"His heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed over his limbs as though he were soaring sunward. His heart trembled in an ecstasy of fear and his soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in an air beyond the world and the body he knew was purified in a breath and delivered of incertitude and made radiant and comingled with the element of the spirit. . . This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain."

Joyce explaining the birth of an artist's soul:
"The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight.You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets."
 
Joyce summing things up:
"We are right, and the others are wrong. To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand--that is art"

And you thought you were going to get a post

I'm taking my summer hiatus--starting now.

I'm leaving for Argentina on Tuesday, and have far too much to do before then.

The next possible time you can hope to hear from me is August 20th.

So, good luck until then.

Yeah, that's really all I've got.

Home

I have a Van Gogh print that sits in my room. It's entitled The Bedroom. The painting is a scene from Van Gogh's personal bedroom in Arles. The colors are vivid and the picture pleasant, but it's not breathtaking. What caught my attention at the gallery, was Van Gogh's description of the painting in a letter to his brother. He mentioned how the colors were soothing because he wanted the painting to be restful to the brain since restful was what a bedroom should be. He wanted the mind to be able to breathe when it looked at this painting because you should be able to breathe in your bedroom.

I own that print because I agree with Van Gogh. Through those words and the feelings he evokes in that painting, he sums up my concept of home.

My home has become more precious to me in the past few years. I often view home as a preservation for my mind. This last semester was bad. My home was my refuge often. There were times when I would open the door to my bedroom, walk in, and simply breathe. My eyes would travel hungrily around the room taking in as much peace as I could. Here was a place where I could breathe.

I'm preparing to leave this home. I have lived in the same house for 20 years. I love this home. I know it all, and I know it well. And yet, I'm preparing to leave.

I still have one more year of classes and a semester of student teaching left, it's true. But the end of last semester made me realize, more than anything else has before, that I'm in my last days of living in this house.

I'm ready to move on. I'm ready to buy a studio, an apartment, a house, or a cardboard box of my own. I'm ready to fill out change-of-address forms. I'm ready to move to somewhere totally different, and start from scratch. I'm ready to pick out a church, make new friends, go to a different library (although all my loyalties will forever remain with this one), work a full-time job, and build up my 401k.

I know that I'm incredibly lucky. If all goes according to plan, I'll graduate without any debt and have some savings.  There's nothing holding me back from applying anywhere, being accepted somewhere (hopefully), and moving there. I'm organizing my stuff into boxes, totes, and piles. If required, I could leave this home--provided there were enough boxes for my books--with everything I own in 24 hours. I'm not expecting anything to be that fast, but I'm serious when I say I'm ready. Everything in the attic is ready to be moved into a moving van, and everything in my room, can be easily boxed up.

One of the important concepts of home is that it is not restricted to one place. A few of the others are the freedom to speak freely, the encouragement to grow, and the ability to be restful but not complacent.

I'm going to miss this particular home. I know I will, but I'm ready to create my own home from the lessons I've learned about homes in this home.

I'm not one for plaques about 'home is where the heart is', live/laugh/love picture frames, or quotes about families being displayed around the house. But somewhere in my house I want the Van Gogh print to hang because it reminds me that when you're in your home, you should be able to breathe.

His Girl Friday

This is an amazing movie.

It's been a favorite for years.

Time has not taken away any of its charm, and I'm sure it never will.

I'm watching this right now, and have no desire to do anything else.

Isn't that enough? The time I usually spend writing, I'm instead enjoying this incredible movie.

It's a wise use of time--trust me.

Empty Bottle

For the past few days, I've been on drugs. I'm not going to tell you it wasn't an enjoyable few days, but I am glad to be returning to a land where I actually care.

I had all four wisdom teeth pulled on Tuesday. I really don't remember the rest of the day. I remember napping on the couch and feeling like I was choking because there was so much blood in my mouth (I'm sorry, should I have warned you?), I remember my first experience of trying to chew with my two front teeth, and then swallowing straight-back immediately so as not to touch any other part of my mouth, and I remember my mother telling me to take pain pills--I wasn't sure why I needed them, I felt just fine.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday passed in a large blur. I remember talking to people, but I don't remember about what. I remember trying to read and being frustrated I was nodding off every two pages--literally. I remember thinking food would taste good, but the thought of moving my jaw scared me. I remember being confused about why I couldn't remember the last time I had taken my pain pills--I was taking them every four hours, how hard could it be? I participated in activities, but whatever I did I usually felt disinterested and listless. I felt as if people were moving around me, and there was nothing else on earth for me to do but to sit back and watch them--and I was just fine doing that.

I had to go off the meds on Friday. I had to go to work on Saturday for eight hours. Since the surgery, however, I hadn't been awake for eight straight hours, and the hours I had been awake I was certainly not in any shape to be working. I wasn't sure how I was going to feel.

I woke up Saturday sore. My mouth hurt. I had spent the night searching for a comforting way to put my head on the pillow so I could sleep. I thought about the blissful hours spent on my pills: I hadn't known there was an uncomfortable way to put my head, each and every place had seemed perfect. I cursed the clock that told me to report to work in a two hours.

That eight-hour shift was the longest I have ever spent at work. It was worse than all the the Black Friday's put together. My head ached from the moment I arrived until I finally left. Time has never passed as slowly as it did that day. I have never done so many stupid things as I did that day (I carried a box halfway across the store, looked down at it, realized I had no idea why it was in my hands or what I was doing with it, and carried it back the length of the store--I never do stuff like that).

By that night, however, after feeling horrible and wanting nothing more than the sweet relief of my pain pills (oh yes, I still have some), I felt like eating real food and participating in a conversation--I was returning.

I still have a few more days until I'm declared completely better and at no risk for dry sockets. I'm hoping I don't have them. I don't want to go through all of that.

There would, however, probably be more pills, right?

Today

1.

I woke up today and it was storming.

I went for the early morning shift at work. Ad set went smoothly. That might sound like nothing to you, but it's one of two times that I can remember that happening.

We have a lady retiring after 35 years (I cannot imagine 35 years of retail). The ad set morning crew threw her a special party on our break. There were doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, platters of cheese and crackers, strawberry shortcake, and assorted other foods. I ate lots while listening to her tell us about the dance classes she took 30 years ago and the different steps she could lead--it was genuinely fascinating.

I left work and rushed to put gas in the car. I have a rewards card and today was payoff day--I saved 30 cents off each gallon I put in. I was way too excited.

I changed for church, picked up family and friend, and left. Halfway there, we were caught in a summer storm. It was a good storm. Loud, vicious, pelting, warm, and humid all at once. There is nothing like a good rainstorm to make you feel cocooned and content.

At church there was more food. I ate and enjoyed.

We left quickly after church to get home. I changed and ate quickly because I had to get back to work. Usually the Sunday afternoon shifts make me feel tired, hungry and cranky, but not today.

At work, my wonderful friend was back from vacation. We started trying to catch each other up on everything that had happened--we didn't get anywhere close, but we had fun trying.

I changed again. Headed back to church. Went to choir practice. I loved the music we were singing--for all the wrong reasons, and enjoyed the people I spent time with.

We headed home. I drove fast. I talked with Dad and then ate pizza. All were good.

2.

It doesn't sound like I had much time for reflection, but I found the time.

6 years ago today, the problem was technically over--the kids just didn't know it yet. We wouldn't be informed until Monday, but for all intents and purposes, it was over.

I've written about this anniversary on previous June 27th's, but I've never felt like I do now. It's a strange mixture of amazement, pain and joy--but the pain is lesser then it ever has been before; this time amazement and joy are taking over.

I wish I could tell those 16, 14, 12 and 10 (It's funny, but I never felt young) year olds that it was going to be better. It wasn't going to be easy, it wasn't going to be fast, and it certainly wasn't going to be complete, but it was going to be so much better.

I still have a long way to go. I won't bore you with all that still needs to be accomplished in my life, but it's a lot. There are things I would change about my current life, but nothing major like I would have 6 years ago.

People don't understand, but I'm serious when I say,
This is my life, and in it, I am content.

It's Inevitable

I think this is my third year of doing the whole post-every-week-in-the-summer challenge.
Most of the time, it's not a challenge. Usually I have things I want to say and you provide a perfect outlet. There is, however, always one week where I don't feel like writing--apparently, it's this week.

It's not that I don't have plenty going on in my life that I could tell you about--getting my wisdom teeth pulled, sister and friend leaving, Argentina, summer, where my home is (I'm not joking--that's actually a post I'm working on right now), and numerous other possibilities. I'm just saying that none of those feel right for today.

So, I'm taking the coward's way out and giving you this annoying piece of drivel (admit it--you have always wanted to use that word in a sentence).

I do, however, have one piece of amazing news that you absolutely must hear: The words toward and towards mean the exact same thing. Toward is used by Americans and towards by the British.

No wonder I have always been confused about which one to use. It's judgement and grey all over again.

I guess now I should recant the drivel word because nothing as important as that last piece of information could ever be considered foolish.

But I can't take back drivel--I just can't.