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The Syzygy of Midnight Perambulations

Posted on Oct 25th, 2008 by Tsuya : Wonder Tsuya

 

For Dawn...


Consciousness dawned in dribs and drabs.  There was no fanfare of trumpets sounding, no pipers, no marching band.  She became aware that she was sitting.  Just that.  Sitting.  As life passed her by...

night swinger

She waited.

The pedestrians and traffic hurried by.  Lovers with mouths stained red from the juice of cherries.  Children lollygagging along home after school, lugging knapsacks of books.  The homeless woman in her pajamas and overcoat, shuffling by with her shopping cart, hands wrapped in socks and old rags to ward off the early chill.  The leche-vitrines, the supper-replete on their follow-up strolls, the idle passers-by - all glimpsing another life across the plate glass divide, and passing on... 

One night, spying, a flash in the window... her image caught and frozen, trapped and stolen: an illustration re-pixillated and shooshed out over the invisible informatic void.  To become: a dream, a wondering, a wandering, a stair of starry, starlit, star-bright stories...

~~

The night she went missing was the night she awakened.  As if from a dream of herself, she finally just woke up.  She was not meant to be pushed around by life, not meant to be stared at or ignored, on display like a prize heifer at the county fair: no.  She had a life, and she was going to claim it. 

No longer would she wait around, suspended in mid-air, left to languish.  No longer would she wait for someone to choose her, like hand-me-down diamonds from the lost-and-found that no one would claim.  She would decide for herself, claim her life as her own.

A longing for life roared up from within her: fierce, undeniable.  The full extent of her decision yet to be realized, she stepped lightly, leapingly, laughingly down from her perch above it all, and fell into the river of life.  Into the river of life, into its storms and its stories and its storehouse of riches, she leapt. 

~~

She found her feet and strode her stride, got her start, played her part.  Sophisticated, industrious (even illustrious), she wore smart suits and bought fine art. 

She timed her life by a wristwatch, paced the halls, made the right calls, and rose high to the 90th-story-penthouse-elite.  Admired, beloved, jet-setting, no fear.  Jet-setted to Milan, Paris, New York - arrivederci, bonjour, and shalom to them all. 

A chat on the phone, a tap of the blackberry, then rushing away to her next rendez-vous, her life filled up with the minutiae of endless detail.

cold in there

Higher and higher she flung herself, further and further she flew: now pushing her own life from behind to hurry it along. 

And yet, despite this newfound, exhilarating freedom, and no matter how fast and far she went, it was as if her life was still tracing an invisible, circumscribed arc. 

It seemed her existence hinged on some hidden tether, some fated flight plan which allowed her only so far, before heaving her back.

~~

Now faint, far-away, a calling came, a new yearning rose. Gentle and sweet, yet achingingly, unshakably constant, it beckoned.  Away and away, whispered the stars in their orbits, sang the leaves in the trees, fluttered the butterflies' wings.  And for the second time, she heeded the invisible impulse to tear her life free of its mooring.  Laughing, singing, crying;

             flying, floating, falling free,

                         she then hurled herself through the

                                     open door to a new,

                                                            radical reality...

free



 

and was free.


 


(chapitre treize, La Balanceuse, of the ongoing spinnings of the story perambluators)

 


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Love & Language

Posted on Jun 10th, 2008 by Tsuya : Wonder Tsuya

A recent blog from a friend reminds me of how fascinating and fun it is to note how other languages process the world, and inspired me to pull out my old Greek dictionary to look up "love..."  Investigating the meaning of words, foreign or domestic, provides an interesting reflection on how much of our assumed "reality" is just a construct of language.  And just how fluid language is...

The many Greek words for love is a fascinating example of how different languages see the world - erotic love, platonic love, brotherly love, familial love, love for humanity (anthropy?) - these separate words paint a picture of a world in circles of love, fanning out and flowing into one another like ripples in a pond.  Not an on/off light switch either/or proposition like in English, distinct as the daisy-chain rhyme: "he loves me, he loves me not..."  Ancient Greek at least had that famous break-up line encoded - I still love you as a friend...

It used to drive me nuts that in French, the same word, aimer, was used for like and love - so you could say "I love you" or "I like peas" and it was the SAME.  Crazy!  And yet, the MEANING of these phrases, like any words, comes only in CONTEXT, so it's NOT the same.  And the language reflects the culture - the French don't just go around LOVING everything like the exubrant Americans, so there's not really a need for the distinction.  And yet there is more than one word for friend in French, like in Russian - a sore lack in English  where we're all "buddy-buddy."  Yes we HAVE the words "comrade" and "colleague" and the like, but they hardly get a daily airing, and lack the robustness to differentiate levels of friendship. 

And why in the world don't grown-ups have a better word for "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" - in French, "little" friend - ??  How awful, in love, to be relegated to being a girl or boy forever, unless you marry and become, that ugliest of words, a "spouse."  A linguist friend, rebelling against calling her loved1 a boy, neither liked man-friend (how cringeworthy is that?), nor significant other (what a mouthful of ambiguous garbage), nor better half (really, let me insult myself while introducing myself).  What then?  My guy (one step up from boy, not quite a man)  My man?  (cave- ?)  My old man?  (father?)  My lover? (the literal approach, but possibly suggestive of a flava-of-the-week type affair).  My partner (in crime?  business partner??)  My love? (sweet, but unwieldy)  My baby (nuh-uh, that's something else entirely!)  My honey-sweetie-puddingpie? My friend settled laughingingly on PopTart.  But really, this is such an ugly mire of word-lostness, one might really prefer matrimony just to have something decent to call the one one loves (husband and wife are lovely words, just ix-nay on the spousal).  And this dilemma is a perfect mirror reflecting our culture's struggles with the relatively new concepts of serial monogamy and eternal uncommittedness.  Pre-husband?  Test-drive?  The opposite of husband-in-name-only, this is my husband-in-everything-but-name?  Hello, this is my superstitious-co-believer-that-"I do"- will-end-the-love-we-share-but-still-have-no-socially-acceptable-name-for.  Nice to meet you.  Here are our kids, the Hyphenates. 

So, anyway... IS English terse and ineffective?? Isn't any language?  English actually has a LOT more words than most languages - but does that lead to clarity?  Do more words help?  The trick I believe, is to not to take words too literally.  They are nets we throw, trying to capture meaning, some of which remain naturally elusive.  Words are not things.  Just ideas.  Abstractions... 

I had a lovely talk once with a nice Christian lady who came knocking at my door.  Normally, I avoid such salesmen and proselytizers like the plague, yet somehow we struck up an ineteresting conversation.  She, of course, wanted to know whether I accepted Jesus in my heart and the Bible as the one true word of God.  I asked, which one might be the One, and cited one of my favorite passages in Corinthians - 'these three abide: faith, hope, and love; and the greatest of these is love' - and asked why, in the most widely-published King James edition, it was 'charity' that was most important, not 'love.'  Questions of any sort tend to scare most religious folk off, but this lady was game.  So we chatted for a while about the nature of language, translation (that whole 'young girl' - parthenos - being translated as 'virgin' thing), and politics - who makes the rules, who decides 'truth,' and who speaks Greek anymore anyway, let alone Aramaic?  And which is more important, charity or love?  And is there a distinction between the love you have for you-and-yours and the love you have for humanity?

Which gets back to the specific case of Greek having more than one word, i.e., concept, for love.  IS there more than one kind?  Is such a distinction helpful?  Or is it just quibbling?

After all, 'charity' has a bad rap in independent America.  Once a virtue to be sought out (the most important one, if you believe the most popular bible ever), it's now looked down upon as free hand-outs to the (obviously) undeserving (who should really get a job). The Golden Rule says to treat others as you would yourself, but what with self-effacing cynicism being so popular these days, treating yourself as you would a complete stranger might be the greater kindness.

And speaking of the ancient Greeks, what ever happened to treating every stranger that comes to your door (as that nice Christian lady did) as, literally, a God in disguise?  Perhaps our doors are too close together?  Or do we fear the bill collector (credit being that new governmental tax on being poor)?  Or the proselytizer, political stump, telemarketer - do we so fear they will change our opinions (or do we just need to get dinner on)?

If we could manage to treat both ourselves and others with the same divine love, what kind of a world might that be?
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Tagged with: words, love, language, agape, religion

Eclectic, Voracious, Insatiable

Posted on Apr 2nd, 2008 by Tsuya : Wonder Tsuya
Confessions of a book lover…  This post has been brewing in the back of my brain since I read Diane's post Do You Read? referencing Debi's blog on what it means to be a reader.  But since I've been captivated by the new zBooks functionality here on zaadz, and feverishly entering a sampling of my favorite books, quotations, and recommendations, as well as delightedly perusing others' contributions and recommendations,  I have been thinking more and more about what it means to be 'a reader.'

When I passed the two hundred mark on my bookshelf without even breaking stride (and these are just the really, really good ones, mind you; I don't see the point in wasting much time with the mediocre), I knew I would probably have to say something about this compulsion… this addiction… this passion, known as reading.

I am sure that there are many different definitions as to what constitutes a reader, but I'm going with: eclectic, voracious, and insatiable.  After all, anyone can read, and in this culture and age we generally take it as a given that most people do.  At least in school, when they are forced to.  But to truly be a reader is something a little different than just reading books, or even reading a lot of books.  I see so many people that have read a lot, but just of one author, or in one or two genres.  This is just SAD to me.  And that certainly doesn't constitute being a reader in my mind.  There is just such a wonderful abundance of material, such a wealth of riches out there to explore… Sure, I understand finding an author and just having to read every single one of their titles, and I mean, like, yesterday.  Or wanting to know everything possible about the evolutionary neuroscience of cetaceans, say.  But to stop there, to get fixated on just one book or author or subject just seems MADNESS to me!  CAVE AB HOMINE UNIOU LIBRI (Beware the man of one book!!!)

I think being a reader, in the true sense of the word, is maybe a type of learning disorder.  It's not that readers can't learn in any other way; quite to the contrary, they seem to have access to MORE ways of learning, of absorbing information and intelligence, than most people.  Maybe not a disorder per se, but you get my drift.  There's just something different about readers, beyond fluency with the written word.  Of course, reading alone constitutes neither knowledge or intelligence on its own, a fact true readers tend to recognize more keenly than anyone; because they KNOW just how much is 'out there' available in the field of human understanding, they tend to be hyper-conscious of how little they know, of how much there is still to learn, and how delightfully delicious the whole process really is.

So, readers are eclectic: they read widely.  Although they may dip deeply into a few dearly beloved topics, they are always ready to try something new, and are usually perusing books on vastly varying subjects at the same time.  It's all connected, after all.  The juxtaposition in a title like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, for example, so widely copied, will intrigue an eclectic reader.  It's not just about novelty, either.  A reader is the last person you will usually find reading something that is trendy, or 'hot.'  They will definitely cast a weather eye over the new releases table, but then they usually head straight back to the stacks in pursuit of more elusive quarry.  Once the hooferah over a title has died down, and it seems more clear what may be genuinely worthy of one's time, a reader will pick up those popular reads, but generally not until then.  They may appreciate the Harry Potter effect (for they love an underdog who triumphs, and what reader would not exult the sensation created by JK Rowling's books, the likes of which haven't been seen in this country for generations), but unless they got in on the ground floor before a craze strikes, they will often defer reading such books, no matter how fine, until after the furore subsides a bit.  They're kind of like savvy stock traders in that regard.

And readers are voracious.  They're never going to turn up their noses at that Harry Potter for instance, just because that's juvenile (can you hear the sneer?) fiction.  A true reader will read anything.  Anything.  Except for what they are forced to, of course.  There is nothing a reader resents more than being told what to read.  They will detest it on principle, as anyone would. (lo! let us lament the poor, benighted middle- and high-school students even now being forced to read something not of their own choosing!  'Oh, unhappy people')   All those book clubs springing up like kudzu, for example, (and bless their hearts!) are unlikely to contain true readers.  Readers don't need a luncheon date as an excuse to read.  You can't stop them.  This is truly their nasty little secret: they can't stop reading.  It's a compulsion, an addiction.  The newspaper, junk mail, billboards as they are driving, cereal boxes over the breakfast table, printed shower curtains as they use the facilities, even shampoo bottles with their multisyllabic chemic soups of syllables will do in a pinch.  If you're used to taking in printed information in this way, you do it unconsciously, just by having your eyes open.  You will often hear a reader say 'I read/heard/saw that somewhere…' and trail off.  They will be familiar with obscure facts which they have no recollection of ever collecting, which they didn't even know they had in their heads until it pops out of their mouths.  They are like synesthetics, who perceive sensory data in unexpectedly diverse ways.  Non-readers will boggle, 'how do you know that?', and they often can't answer.  Just do.  Read a book somewhere.  Or maybe a shampoo bottle…

And, too, readers are insatiable.  Does this sound like the same thing as voracious?  It bears repeating.  Insatiable: unable to get enough.  Unstoppable.  A reader is much like the veriest heroin addict, only their drug of choice is legal.  And while some hide their addiction well, managing to function somewhat normally in society, just under the surface burns a roaring furnace of want, an inferno of need to read one… last… book.  Or chapter, or paragraph, or sentence (some times they will even, clandestinely, stay home from work to do so, a sure sign of addiction).  Sometimes being a reader runs in families, sometimes it doesn't.  Most real readers have been so since childhood, although all seem to agree it is never too late, one is never immune.  Most had someone in their lives early on (sometimes a parent, usually not) who encouraged them to read, or put just the right book in their hands.  (Readers tend to remember who put which books in their hands, or at least, certainly, which books they were, those ones that got them hooked.)  When the affliction starts in childhood, it is especially pernicious and difficult to eradicate.  A typical childhood bedtime exchange (or, bargaining with an addict) might go like this:

        “Lights off”    “Five more minutes”
    (five minutes later)
        “Lights off”    “Five more minutes”
    (five minutes later)
        “Lights off”    “Five more minutes”
        “You said that ten minutes ago”      “Then give me ten more minutes”
        “All right, but that will make twenty minutes, and then it's really time for bed”    “mmm…”
    (twenty minutes later)
        “Lights off”    “Five more minutes”
        “NO.  I've given you half an hour, now its' time for bed.”    “mmm…”
        “I'm turning the light off.”    “No!”
        “It's time for BED!”   “But, Moooooom (whining), I'm not DONE yet.  One more chapter”
        “All right.  ONE more chapter.  But then it's lights OUT”
    (twenty minutes later)
        “Have you finished your chapter yet (sarcastic)?”    “mmmmf… almost done”
        “No 'almost done.'  It's been an hour!  I'M going to bed.  Lights OUT.  Good NIGHT.”
    (shuts off light, leaves)
    (wee figure creeps silently out of bed, turns on light, resumes reading…)

This insatiability lends a quality of promiscuity to the reader; a willingness to be, at a moment's notice, seduced by a new book, genre, or idea.  It gives a certain unmistakable sparkle to one's eyes, a merry twinkle, a lightness of step, a joie de vivre (especially in bookstores).  Unfortunately, people and obstacles often become invisible.  Glasses have to be worn to enable the fatigued optic muscles to focus beyond the next page of text.  But if you ever catch a reader's attention - jump back!  They will bring their towering focus to bear, and it can be formidable.  For a reader often burns with an inner fire (by which we recognize one another).  They may drift along lackluster through tiresome chores until they can get their next fix, but mention a good read, and see how they light up inside!  There is a smoldering intensity of focused intelligence to readers - not intelligence born of adopting others' dogmatic data, but a keenness of perception honed to a razor's edge by developing their own powers of discernment.

This discernment is very important to readers.  A reader will judge a book by its cover and make no apologies for doing so, as they sort through mountains of information.  But they will never dismiss anything entirely without cause because they possess above all that rarest of qualities: an open mind.  They keep an open mind, and have a much greater control over the focal depth of their awareness than that of their eyes.  They often appear to go through life half-shuttered, gazes lidded and mysterious as they slow the outer stimulus to a trickle in order to process, parse, and refer internally all the data they have received (and so as not scare the bejesus out of others).  But they can also dilate their awareness in a snap to full on engage in life in a way that is often startling to those who don't know them.

Readers also tend to be non-dogmatic.  So much so, they tend to have an almost allergic reaction to dogma (or surety, or certainty) in any form.  They KNOW there's another perspective out there.  And they never expect others to have read the same books they have, or find difficulty speaking with them if they have not.  On the contrary, the true reader has usually experienced so many different walks of life through reading that they are remarkably easy to talk with.  They know a little something about everything, and what they don't know, they are fascinated to learn.  They won't develop a lingo known only to themselves or condescend to those they are speaking with, or assume a superior knowledge because they've read about something.  They're hyper-aware of the gulfs that can develop between people over the use of words, and they tend to naturally mirror, or pattern, the diction and vocabulary of those they are speaking with to communicate most effectively, and to subtly test those they encounter for comprehension before saying too much that might be distancing.

While people who are widely read often come across immediately as authoritative in some subtle way, if you talk with them for a while, you will usually find that they are not merely well-informed, but thoughtful, knowledgeable, even wise, but always unprepossessing.
Continually consuming not just information, but information on a variety of subjects, from all different points of view, forces them to incorporate different types of knowledge into a cohesive, yet ever-adapting whole.  They understand that learning (knowledge, comprehension, education, wisdom) - is something you have to build for yourself, within yourself, like a muscle; it's not something you GET from any particular book or institution or school of thought, like a virus.  They can be quite disciplined in building that base of learning, if appearing fickle (see voracious, insatiable, promiscuous, above!) in other regards.

Readers also tend to have very strong relationships with others, whether with other readers or not.  They value human connection very highly, and will tend to have fewer, closer friends rather than more whom they are not closely connected with in some way.  They also tend to value immaterial things more highly than material ones, for they know intimately the value of ideas:

            You may have tangible wealth untold,
            Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
            Richer than I you could never be;
            I know someone who told stories to me.
                -Cynthia Pearl Maus

Whether rich or poor, they tend to have spent a goodly proportion of their money on books, for though they may heavily patronise libraries, they also value quality and tend to love books, the objects, themselves, and become increasingly persnickety about distinctions lost on most people, over things like bindings, imprints, editions, and certainly translations.  And  they tend to be generous with their books and their ideas, sharing them freely, knowing that 'all the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own' (Goethe)  They will lend books to others, buy books for others, encourage others to read, and oftentimes will make instant or even lifelong friends over the shared love of a particular book or idea.

Anyway, that's my first attempt to describe the natural history of the elusive 'reader' creature.  Just like with 'friend,' there should probably be more nuanced words in English to describe such things and avoid confusion.  But that's what I think being a reader's about, and I plead guilty to some or all of the above charges, and know others who do as well.  And of course, I'm happy to spread/share the addiction, or at least the habit, or at the very least recommend some good books for those who, while they may not be addicts, may still enjoy a ripping good yarn every so often…


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