- Dogs go apeshit at 7am...strangely enough, I'm getting used to it.
- After the barking-induced tension headache/hysteria began to set in, I got dressed and adjourned to C-vegas to visit with my peeps.
- Went to lunch with Thesis Advisor to mull over some ideas. Fruitful lunch. I'm very excited about the independent study in Summer II and thesis beginnings in the Fall.
- Came home, swam. In Andi-speak "swam" means "scooped incessantly as all good pool Nazis do."
- Took a nap.
- Discovered that our 'fridge is no longer 'fridgerating.
- Finished A Plea for Eros, which leads me to the sloshing.
Siri Hustvedt is one of the few authors that makes my breath hitch in my throat and can damn near bring me to tears. She's an amazing brain--got her PhD from Columbia, dissertation on Dickens, novelist, poet, essayist, and just happens to be married to acclaimed author Paul Auster--and reading her work sends my brain into spasms of painful mind-bending contemplation while simultaneously throwing me into fits of manic joy because I begin to think, "YES! That's that thing I've always thought but didn't know how to say or write!!"
Reading A Plea for Eros, her book of personal essays on a number of philosophical issues was nothing short of my previous, gut-wrenching experiences with her fiction. I would try to summarize or praise the delicate nuances and turns of thought in her work, but I'm too tired and I would just not do the pieces justice. I'll just say, she weaves her personal narrative into her philosophical musings in such a way that it all becomes pure magic. Pure, unadulterated, genius. Why she hasn't won boatloads of awards, I'll never understand. She has more talent in her little finger than Updike has in his disposable rocket (ptooey, Updike!).
One of my favorite passages...the closing passage actually....
I am afraid of writing, too, because when I write I am always moving toward the unarticulated, the dangerous, the place where the walls don't hold. I don't know what's there, but I'm pulled toward it. Is the wounded self the writing self? Is the writing self the answer to the wounded self? Perhaps that is more accurate. The wound is static, a given. The writing self is multiple and elastic, and it circles the wound. Over time, I have become more aware of the fact that I must try not to cover that speecheless, hurt core, that I must fight my dread of the mess and violence that are also there. I have to write the fear. The writing self is restless and searching, and it listens for voices. Where do they come from, these chatterers who talk to me before I fall asleep? My characters. I am making them and not making them, like people in my dreams. They discuss, fight, laugh, yell, and weep. I was very young when I first heard the story of the exorcism Jesus performs on a possessed man. When Jesus talks to the demon inside the man and asks for his name, the words he cries out both scared and thrilled me. The demon says, "My name is Legion." That is my name, too.
Listening: "Mandolin Rain"...Bruce Hornsby