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My new stationary exercise bike

Friends and readers,

I hope all who read this diary blog had some good enjoyment yesterday. Izzy and I passed the day as we have three out of the five times we’ve live through this one since Jim died — more or less alone together.  Once a friend-daughterlike-student came with her partner from Canada to meet over a chicken with us, and once we were invited to a neighbor to partake of a turkey dinner with her and her disabled son.

I’m sure you’ve noticed the new photo. Yes I bought a stationary exercise bike at last: it arrived this past Tuesday in a big long box I could hardly move; if I understood Amazon accurately (it was not clear what would happened until I clicked to spend $148 for the bike and $73 to have it put together, separate buttons) soon after a man would come to put it together. Well he did. I almost missed him because he texted me to try to see if I was home and when I heard the call, I picked up the cell phone and tried to talk to him. No matter, I had clicked on Amazon I would be there. I have done another 8 minutes this morning and realize I have also to invent a warm-up pattern to help myself some more.

Well, back to yesterday: in the morning Izzy watched the Macy’s Day Parade, and after household tasks, I read & wrote: yesterday on Winston Graham’s No Exit, one of his few worthwhile suspense novels (not marred by misogynistic and other trash & silly tropes). I have identified thus far two other good, ethical, even fine fictions by him in the suspense mode: The Dangerous Pawn and Strangers Meeting (I recognize some of the misogynistic books have attracted male mass media movies, plays, even an opera). And I posted on my two listservs @groups.io on good books and films we are doing there, to Victoria on women’s hats in the era as showing status, rank, all sorts of cultural signals, even Outlander on the recent episode of Season 4 (caused an explosion of comments, some 246 over the day). We were unable to go for our usual walk in Old Town Alexandria or a nearby park — it being too cold where we are, so in the later afternoon I watched the 1974 Oliver Stone’s All The President’s Men. Excellent film where we watch the very early stages of finding out hard-to-get necessary information and clues to understand something important had happened and to begin to find out what it was. All actors superb. Then Izzy and I had a usual good dinner we both like and are able to eat: a roast chicken (from a family-owned farm, free range) with basmati rice, Dell Monte zucchini with yummy sauce, orange juice for her and wine for me, all while listening to good music and talking.

From friends over the day letters, emails and from Nick Holland’s blog on the Brontes an unexpected photo of Emily Bronte’s Keeper, which made me hope that Gaskell’s story of the beating of that dog by Emily which probably the truth was a rare moment in the life of that animal:

I’d gotten into Hilary Mantel’s A Place of Greater Safety and returning to it for my historical fiction project. She then read and watched TV & was on the Internet too, perhaps saw a movie.

Our cats played, hung about, stayed near to us, & rested & slept a lot ….

It doesn’t seem commensurate but of the good things that happened this year: I was able (with help) to move my three long-time listservs from bad yahoo to good groups.io, and made it back after many years to the lake district in the UK, and Ian, my boy pussycat is looking better of late than he has, for unknown reasons his fur a better color, smoother, fluffier, and his eyes while still surrounded by grey, somehow his face a healthier ginger with light yellow and white once again. Of the bad and losses: my friend Vivian died. One year Christmas eve we walked with her in the twilight to look at the Alexandria City Christmas tree.

A favorite a propos Jane Austen remark: “My day’s journey has been pleasanter in every respect than I expected. I have been very little crowded and by no means unhappy.” –Jane Austen, Letters (24 Oct 1798). Clarycat and a truly congenial book-as-friend await me on my pillow for the night …..

I posted this to face-book at the end of the day, but found that because I did not pretend to more cheer than I felt or talk of joy or post pictures signifying these things — though I do believe conviviality and sharing the good things about this holiday ritual — I received replies which implied I was sad or in such a mood because of Vivian’s death: “condolences” and “sorry for your loss” sort of thing, which grated so I put a comment onto face-book that I’ll recycle here:

The above intendedly mild paragraph in response to FB well-meant conviviality is being misunderstood or one detail too emphasized. I mentioned Vivian’s death but my mood and point of view is not the result of that one event but the whole year I have lived through, and the kind of day I passed truthfully described amid this hegemonic order. There is one correction I should make this morning: I did not read Tomalin (who is on the pillow for what she stands for in my mind), but instead her biography of Katherine Mansfield and the very great literary biography by Nicola Beauman on EM Forster called Morgan, worth probably far more than countless books. How well she quotes Woolf on Forster.


He and she my companions

I am so tempted to cite Merwin’s Thanks in order to try to reinforce the balance I intended that I will:

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
taking our feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
thank you we are saying and waving
dark though it is

But I found Merwin inadequate or simply comes across as ill-tempered not to forget for a few hours, so wanting to be adequate I watched DemocracyNow.org with Amy Goodman and Nermeen Shaikh discussing what is happening in our world that matters this very week and put links to that on face-book too:

among other things, a new Brazil emerging which returns us to the horrors upon horrors of the 1970s and 80s fomented by the US gov’t (and its corporations and military). The transcripts are there too: the caravan of wretchedly poor miserable people in danger of losing their lives to be met by guns and detention centers (and separation) at the US borders, the looming nuclear war ratcheted up, and how he who I won’t sully this page by naming knows there is climate break-up as his request to Ireland to allow one of his companies to build a wall shows. Lula in prison the equivalent of Mandela.

For today another day’s study, reading, writing, communicating as best I can with what uplift I can that is nonetheless truthful to be with others in the best way available to me ahead. Izzy is preparing a new song for us … and worked on that yesterday too, several times.


My computer’s automatic Windows 10 computer-enhanced latest wallpaper — as of November 23rd, this morning (click to enlarge, remembering that yours truly cannot reproduce the luminosity of the original, which comes from the computer light and had to cut off the edges in order to cut off metal frame of the computer that the cell phone software caught)

Ellen

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A woman reading — one of the Corot paintings I saw with a friend at the National Gallery exhibit yesterday

Friends,

Sometimes I wake up and in my mind I know I am deeply distraught. This morning as I came out of sleep I realized I had been having a dream the first two weeks I came home from my trip where I was on another trip and behaving in an isolated manner. Now that the dreams have ceased I cannot tell the details. Had I a real psychiatrist as twice I have been lucky enough to have, I could have talked to him or her and perhaps brought these details to surface. Even now they are just outside my mind and disturbing me, and I Know this is so because until this morning I half-believed that the experiences I dreamed happened. I am relieved to realize that the skein was not real but also distressed because I believed in them.

Then as the darkness fades and the room become filled with a grey morning light (there is just now an intense hurricane near by northern Virginia where I live) I see my two cats. They are waiting for me to get up. I know if I obeyed some deep inner impulse and did not behave in the usual morning calm way of getting up, petting them, going with them into the kitchen, getting out their food, and then going round the house to open the shades, decide whether to open the windows (would you believe the air is still and hot this morning just outside the window?), put on the computer and the rest of it, they would be very distressed. I used sometimes to distress my dog 40 years ago because I could not keep to a calm routine. I was not even able to want to and when I realized what was happening to the dog it was too late to turn things round; age 13 Llyr became mortally ill with cancer.


Close up of Ian, 2016

I have today tickets for Izzy and I to go to the Folger theater where the company is playing Macbeth by William D’Avenant, the 17th century poet, playwright, impresaro, entrepreneur who opened one of the two theaters in London after the Stuart regime was put back on the throne and took over the establishment again. He could write exquisitely beautiful erotic pastoral poetry. He claimed he was Shakespeare’s son (his parents’ tavern was on a road between London and Stratford and it was said Shakespeare sometimes stayed there). He is one of those who adapted Shakespeare to the tastes of audiences in the 17th and 18th century before Shakespeare’s reputation improved to the point no one would do this openly: only abridge and in the case of a movie, adapt to be a movie. I must ready myself so as to be available, dressed, and on our way by 1 o’clock. So this helps too.

I have this computer and face-book, people to interact with, the two listservs, have to eat, dress, do tasks of tidying up. All these help.

But it is the cats who keep me in my routine equilibrium aka staying sane. My obligation to these two creatures who are deeply attached to me, and would become themselves not emotionally well —  if I let out what I am.

Among the many retrograde movements against personal liberty and liberal thought and action is what has happened  in the “health care establishment” to coerce people who are not well or do not conform to feel or think the way a majority of people. Ultimately the cause is money: the vast majority of people don’t pay to pay anything towards helping such people and on top of that others saw an opportunity for huge charges. The result, indifferent demeanor, pushing drugs,  and now and again new cruel operations that are not needed but make oodles of money.  This push back culminated in the 1990s when insurance companies led the charge against psychiatrists. On that trip all around the Lake District and the Borders I was lucky enough to meet an 80+ year old man who was a practicing psychiatrist. He told me his daughter, Amy Goldstein (I believe her name is) is a journalist who wrote a book for which she got some kind prize, Janesville, about the destruction of this town or city by the economic choices and racism inflicted on the unaware and powerless by the ruthless powerful and their opportunistic henchmen and women over the last 50 years.

Bob said he is the only physician or psychologist in his office still practicing psychiatry or effective psychological work. All the others do this CBT, which (this is my view) comes down to pressuring people by talk to force themselves to think the way to be well is think good thoughts, push bad thoughts out of your head by conforming, and of course taking drugs. How easy it is then. And oh yes join clubs.

He talked of the absurdity of the new definition of autism. You take 2 characteristics from 6 sheets, they can be entirely different ones but if they match a slew of such characteristics on a huge sheet, the person is declared autistic. It makes no sense. Does it not matter what is the specific characteristic ? Does it not matter you have thought up so many disparate characteristics and not tried to align them in any reasoning convincing way. He said this kind of non-thinking lies behind the prescription of many strong drugs.  These drugs can and do help some people, but it is all scatter-shot. He will soon have to retire completely and then there will be no sensible person trying to help the real paying individuals who come to that office.


Photo of ClaryCat taken by Laura during one of the times I’ve been away

Meanwhile I have my cats and others their pets too. I keep my promise to them when I bought them that I would come up to what was required, the responsibility I had taken on. Just now Clarycat is sitting tight on my lap looking up to me.

They are such good animals: I’ve now determined it is best to keep them out of the space between my computer and window and if only I will keep to saying, no, they cooperate. They voice to me nowadays on and off, stay near, keep an eye out for me, play when I am happier and all feels content. Have I said Ian (Scruffy) is not longer well? age 10, his heart is not operating right any more. His facial colors are distorted, grey here, too pink there.

So love, reciprocating obligation and responsible keeping of promises, can rescue us, just enough so we can function steadily too.


Tater-du Lighthouse – this morning as my revolving wall paper my screen was cover with a dramatically angled photo of Tater-du Lighthouse in Cornwall

Ellen

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Me at Hill Top House (Lake District, August 2018)

Dear friends and readers,

You owe this blog to my just having watched an extraordinary gem of a TV film made out of a masterpiece production of Macbeth done at the Royal Shakespeare Theater starring Judi Dench and Ian McKellan; with only the most minimal props and simple costumes, they played intensely from the depths of their psychic beings. To try to describe Dench’s performance of Lady Macbeth sleep walking would defeat me: it was a silent howling grief of her whole being.

The use of close-ups, and the intense sexual interaction of Dench and McKellan were all riveting. The opening (the musical accompaniment is not the same as in the film but endure it for what you see)

I could talk of the performances, played deeply straightly, no rejection of what drives each — three witches by Marie Kean (mother), Susan Drury as mad as Macbeth by the end, Judith Harte, against the calmer presences of Bob Peck as Macduff (who left his wife and children behind), Richard Rees as the nervous Malcolm, Ian MacDiarmid the politician Ross and the porter. But then the reader will pay attention to the names, try to remember other performances. No it’s the lines from Shakespeare that they speak so of anguished despair, transcendent horror, crazed hallucinations, and especially Macbeth’s in his isolation, and loneliness, and how the ambition which drove him to kill the king was idiotic. It is as ever easiest to quote the high peak

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

But the shorter lines matter just as much, the ones that in context depend on the action of the play but resonate in the heart: no troops of friends, not one of my children left, no all slaughtered that Macbeth’s hirelings could find.

So often people don’t want to talk about what so moved them — in this case McKellan in three features accompanies the film of the play. He speaks of the original production at Stratford (and like so many now lightly grazes over how the RSC now is not what it was then), of how to play Shakespeare, the choices that Trevor Nunn made (they did it in an inscribed circle on the “other space” which holds only 100 people); the history of the Scottish play, and particulars — like of course you should not bring on someone playing the ghost of Banquo: the point is no one but Macbeth sees him. He never speaks the way Hamlet’s father’s ghost does. The film’s genre seems to be film noir in its continual blackness all around the people interacting so clingingly, in tight groups on stage, though McKellan categories it as horror.

He is such a good friend to have with you — this summer I believe it is that Izzy and I saw his great documentary film about his career at the Folger. he says TV is talking heads, that’s what you should take advantage of. In the theater he has to talk to the others at large or in a small theater of 100 perhaps individually catch your presence one at a time; in TV he talks out to me, says he.

Categories: Mark Kermode has 5 not so intelligent takes on film categories, and Andrew Marr three brilliant on Spy, Thriller and Sorcerer movies — they are on movie genres, so little talked of, the packaging of these commodities. it was almost good enough to make up for the cliched in thought and name-dropping analyses of his first two, which I’ll remind any readers of this thread were on Rom-Com (romantic comedy, which includes the tradtional “wacky” comedy genre and famiial comedy, part of traditional family dramas) and “the heist movie” (which included male violence, crime, film noir, mystery, horror — male genres which females appear in only as sex objects for when a group of women replaces the central group of males).

In the third “new” genre he turns to coming-of-age movies and suddenly he’s better, more engaged, more personal and comes up with analyses that connect the motifs of this genre to social realities in the UK and US (however indiscriminately). He lumps female coming-of-age with male so there is nothing wrong with LadyBird and he does not recognize any difference in a movie where the center is a girl and woman’s friendship and all the mentors are either mothers or women friends or a male coming of age where the question is the place of the individual _in society_, his end success in society, and the mentors are a father or male figure of some sort (avuncular). All is lumped together, and he again reaches back to old classics and then speeds up to reach modern indies and films about minorities — which in this batch are singled as about minorities and so the analyses is again better (Moonlight — black young men are utterly disadvantaged).

Still if you yourself know the difference you can see these things in what you are watching: better, his theme is finding one’s identity. He says such films are about finding one’s identity and the parents regarded as good and authorities on the surface are often those you must get away from, those whose norms will destroy you. He Kermode identifies here and the movies he choses and comments are worth seeing in this light. Movies you might not have regarded as coming of age (for example Sally Hawkins and her fish lover) he does.

I watch these sorts of things at night alone too, gentle reader.

In the silence. Ian McKellan my companion tonight bringing to me the Macbeth he did so long ago with these marvelous actors. Alone but for the imagined community the technology supplies. Yes I have much real there spiritual and emotional companionship from my many Net friends during the day with (as Penelope Fitzgerald calls them) imagined voices (in a novel on her time at the BBC radio) in the silence. I should put on the radio more, but often I don’t care for the music, even classical is too bouncy, loud, incessantly cheerful, too there. I like the music Izzy pulls up from her ipad when we are making supper: play lists of categories like calm; new age; folk music; specific kinds of classical, but then it’s enough.


Emily Mortimer as Florence Green (The Bookshop, Isabel Croixet from Penelope Fitzgerald)

That is the fate of the widow — or at least is mine and others who write about their lives as widows from time to time in newspapers and magazines — the French title of the film is Le Librarie de Mademoiselle Green. The emphasis on how she is single, not married without saying the dreaded word widow “la veuve.” I saw the excellent film adaptation by Isabel Croixet of Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Bookshop in last week’s film club, and Emily Mortimer as Florence Green uttered a line from the book about how the word “widow” is so ominous (vedova parlando, an Italian phrase, carries strong disdainful connotations towards such talk). Florence is a widow of 5 years finally determining to try to work in the world, do something useful; the world does not want her she discovers. Or like Sister Ludmilla in Paul Scott’s Jewel in the Crown, only if she costs them nothing, asks nothing, contributes without expectation of anything in return.

There’s your key. Alas, for Florence she did need money in return. When Mrs Gamart has the gov’t requisition the old house in which Florence made her bookshop, no one will give Florence any of the money back she sunk into the house, and now she is broke. Money. No matter how commercial motives have driven Croixet to soften the source book, she gets that dark hollow at the center of the book. And one is really alone when one’s life’s partner goes. It does seem as if no other relationship can come near this and not all do. All others not intertwined in the heart’s core where our breathing comes from, our oxygen. So how easy it is then, to drop people.

The year is turning into fall as the calendar directs many people’s activities to change. Not the weather, as at least in the Washington DC area, the temperature remains very hot, humid, uncomfortable. There is a softening as the sun does not emerge to glare down until after 6:30 am and fades away around 8 pm. As ever the dark mornings do not make getting up easier, but darkness does mean less heat, and when Jim was alive, we’d walk in Old Town as darkness was coming, and the twilight time in colors can be the prettiest time of each 24 hour cycle.


Alas I did not assign these — next time if there is one

And I’m finding people are behaving slightly differently to me — I’ve had a bunch of letters all at once as if people are remembering others who are part of the autumn pattern or saying goodbye to summer. I’ve been keeping my word to myself of not pushing myself out of the house just to be among people, staying in and finding more real satisfaction in at last getting to a given book or project of reading and writing more steadily and for real, thoroughly. I made some progress on my Winston Graham project this summer once all courses were over even if I went away for two weeks. Truly read carefully some eight or nine of his early suspense books, compared the original and revised first two Poldark books (Ross Poldark and Demelza were originally longer, RP considerably longer). I have found it in me to blog on some of this at Ellen and Jim Have a Blog, Two: “Graham’s Suspense and just pre-WWII novels.”

For the course I’m teaching at the OLLI at AU, The Enlightenment at Risk, I sit and reread or read for the first time astonishing texts by Diderot — La Religieuse, Rameau’s Nephew — Madame Roland, Voltaire’s Lettres Philosophiques, much more central to what I want to convey about the Enlightenment than Candide, which merely shows us the results of human nature let loose in intolerance. I am too lazy, or it is very hard to do justice to these in blogs, but I will produce a few for Austen Reveries as I go through the course and find myself having to put into words for lectures why these are so supremely important, and why another great tragedy is unfolding all around us as those who can understand find themselves helpless once again to implement their insights into what human life is, what happiness, what unacceptable (and should be forbidden) cruelty into law, make them central to custom.


Mark Rylance as Cromwell trying to create a barrier between himself and power (the King)


Claire Foy as Anne Boleyn adjusting the eye cover (2015 Wolf Hall, Straughn, Koshinsky, script, direction)

These imagined voices are my company too. I listen to Michael Slater read aloud Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall and know she’s onto this too. I’m scheduled to teach Wolf Hall: A Fresh Look at Tudor Matter at the OLLI at Mason. I’m into Bring up the Bodies now, much harder, deeply pessimistic book as our hero, Thomas Cromwell, grows older and finds himself in Wolsey’s place against power now. Not read as well by Simon Vance who hasn’t the reach for the iciness and the deep turn to ghost figures for solace both books present in ironic guise.

Yet I’ve understood now how it was also necessary for me to go away in August — I should not spend weeks this way with no break — so upon one of the people in the Canterbury set I described saying twice, would I like to go on a Road Scholar trip alongside him (both take separate rooms) and we both have reserved places next May. I will go through with it with the appropriate low expectations. You see the Road Scholar programs for Cornwall do not occur in August, so I will have to find something for August too. Do I have the nerve to return to the UK for research in libraries about Graham? I’d love it, especially if I could get into BBC archives.


Evelyn Dunbar (1906-1960), Winter Garden (1928): this week’s choice of artist on one of my face-book friend’s timelines ….

Most of the time I’m not literally alone in the 24 hour cycles — as I’m not literally with others on the Net. Most of the time Izzy is here in the evenings, weekends, and whatever other times she is not at work, and we go out together or live our lives in tandem, joining most closely for supper. Not these five Labor Day weekend days, as she has gone to NYC with Laura, where they appear to be having a very good time. Here they are at Coney Island in the blessed breezes.


Izzy and Laura at Coney Island.

They are staying in an apartment of one of Laura’s friends from the Net; they do thus far seem to be going to places Jim and I used to: the Cloisters, the Metropolitan Museum (where Laura found a fashion show), theater through half-price tickets. One day they will spend in Brooklyn, the museum, the botanical gardens, walking in Prospect Park. There is a great borough library too, but they won’t have time for that. One full day at the US open for tennis. I know Izzy the time she went alone enjoyed mightily the bus tours up and down the streets of Manhattan with the stream of talk from the guide-driver and regretted not taking one through Brooklyn.


At the Metropolitan Museum


At the Cloisters

A new level of companionship has emerged with my two cats as I carry on giving of myself in the way I do every where I am physically when one-on-one. I said how Clarycat kept up deliberately yowling-as-scolding the first two days I was back. As if to say you have some helluva nerve disappearing like that, without so much as a by your leave. Now she is under feet and all around me all the day, my perpetual pal, anticipating where we are going, what we are about to do. It can get a bit much.

But Ian or Snuffy has outdone her. He now wails with a point. He came to my room and set up a wail. I couldn’t figure out why. Izzy’s door was open: complete ingress and egress everywhere. So I asked him, what gives? and picked him up. Then he did it. He stared up at the ceiling and wailed again. What is on my workroom ceiling? why a ceiling fan! in these supremely hot dog-days of August, I not only put on the air-conditioning. I’ve taken to putting on all the fans I The house, one in each room. It helps circulate the air. Now in three rooms the fan is a (pretty) ceiling fan. He was telling me he objected to that noise and that turning gadget. A cat who wants to come into my room should not have put up with this. I obligingly turned it off. Absolute truth: about 10 minutes later I noticed him settling down into his cat-bed snoozing. Peace & quiet at last. The rigors of cat life are insufficiently appreciated, Jim used to say.

This is not the only instance where he has wailed in such a way as to communicate an idea, and when I have acted on it, (luckily) I have been somehow confirmed that we have had a good interspecies communication. On the same page as they say. Clarycat also talks at me a good deal, meowing, when I’m not there wailing and then when I call, coming to where I am to be with me.


The cover of Barnes and Noble edition of Howards End — the importance of home, place, history is central to the novel

In about two weeks my fall schedule kicks in and I’ll be going out again: at the OLLI at Mason, I’ve gotten into “The Poetry of Robert Frost,” “Four famous propaganda films” (important ones, two on labor, fancy that), Green’s The Quiet American (which I once taught) and go to a book club three times over the next 4 months (choices are like Exit West Moshin Hamid, whom I’d never heard of); and at OLLI at AU another serious course on films (politically, morally considered), the first half of War and Peace (where I can just come as I read it so carefully two years ago now on TrollopeAndHisContemporaries@groups.io. There we are beginning E.M. Forster’s Howards End (book, two films, all else about Queen Forster — how Jim loved his letters with Cavafy), and are in the middle of Elizabeth Taylor’s Soul of Kindness (the lady is anything but).

I do have another personal blog, one which is crucially political to tell about my trip: the abuse of travelers on an airplane in the year 2018, the ugliness of the way the airline and the airport authorities and to say a lot about TSA who know how dispensable you, my fellow traveler and me are.

Ellen

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A new miniature magnolia tree

“To give way to them is to conform to rules set down by the evil minded” — Ross to Jinny, Demelza (I’m studying Winston Graham, “with all the reassurance of companionship … ” here on the Net)

Of course there has to be an end. Of course. For that is what everyone has faced since the world began. And that is — what do you call it — intolerable. It’s intolerable! So you must not think of it. You must not face it. Because it is a certainty it has to be forgotten. One cannot — one must not — fear a certainty. All we know is this moment and this moment. Ross, we are alive! We are. We are. The past is over, gone. What is to come does not exist yet. That’s tomorrow! it’s only now that can ever be, at any one moment, now, we are alive — and together. We can’t ask more. There isn’t any more to ask — Demelza to Ross, The Angry Tide

Friends and readers,

Today I succeeded in installing a hook on the door into my study (workroom, whatever you want to call it — where I spend most of my existence).

This may be the first one I’ve ever done near accurately — the hook fits into the latch easily! I imitated what the handyman did for my front door: he put a hook on the screen so I can open the door proper and yet keep the screen semi-locked. This way I can further hope to prevent anyone from coming in the front door who I might not want to come in. Thus when I’m gone for 13 days my cats will not be able to get into my workroom and disturb or destroy anything (by mistake of course). The great test will come the next time I go out and put the latch on. Later today or tomorrow. Fingers crossed.

My friends, this was no trivial task. Jim used to plan for this kind of thing well ahead. I have thought and thought about it, and finally went to Home Depot, and bought the equipment. Then I waited for two strategic days of calm. Out came hammer and a device I now use to turn things that are hard to turn: it’s made of a light weight iron.

After hard experience I also decided that it’s a bad idea to have Jim’s tool box so high that every time I try to bring it down, stuff falls on my head, and I teeter on the chair ladder. So I’ve come up with solution here too! I have moved said box into a unobtrusive corner in my sun-room.

I should not omit that my cats were made quite nervous during the progress of the operation. They ran away and hid. They can’t take much tension. Ordeals are beyond them.  But it’s all over now. Folding chair cum-ladder put back. And we three back in place, me at the desk reading near computer, Clary behind it in sun-puddle and Ian in his cat bed on the other side looking out window.


Carl Larsson, The Bridge (1912) — for the sake of the cat looking on

You see, gentle reader, I’ve been occupied this and last week with some forward-looking reading and preparations for my coming holiday trip to the Lake District and Scottish borderlands. Reading ahead for my courses I’ve been relieved and delighted to find I like all my choices still: Voltaire’s Candide, Diderot’s La Religieuse aka The Nun (what an astonishing book), Madame Roland’s Memoirs (abridged, in English) and Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands. Mantel’s Wolf Hall fascinates me still.


I now know there’s been a recent movie (since Rivette’s 1966) with Isabelle Hubbert — I will try to obtain a copy

Despite my not being able to understand ins and outs of Vitanza’s argument in Chaste Rape he has now helped me to understand Diderot’s The Nun and given me a way to teach it. I am also helped by all I have read about torture and the motives for it. He also brings both seasons of the Handmaid’s Tale into conscious alignment. I had seen The Nun as a Clarissa story: in the center Suzanne forced to become a nun by the cruelties of her family, coerced, harassed. I also saw the hideous treatment she is meted out by the other members of the nunnery (they humiliate her, strip her naked, force her to whip herself, starve her, leave her to be fithy, scream at her) as a parable of what can happen in a prison and when you are outcast in a community whom you have openly rejected.

But now I finally see this is a story just like all the stories of rape without the open sexual attack– and that is coming from a lesbian source in the next phase of the book. Vitanza says the purpose of rape is not the sexual attack centrally; that is part of the destruction of a personality until it asks you to hurt it itself, until it takes on your values, until it kisses the tormenter.
After one of the sessions of horrifying treatment, Suzanne is told her lawyer has obtained a change of convent for her. He lost the case to have her freed but he can do this. What does she do? she gives her most precious objects to the cruel superior mother; she begs those who thew her into the dungeon physically to take other favors form her and kisses them and thanks them. When the overseer comes who has the news she can move and he forbids her to see her lawyer, she says that she has no desire to see him and when there is an opportunity she refuses. This cannot encourage the lawyer to go on helping her. He might think her forbidden but he might think she doesn’t care.

This also reminds me of Offred-June in Handmaid’s Tale where she takes on the values of the Waterfords, Lydia and everyone else – like Suzanne. I suppose she is a heroine to American watchers because we are to believe her desire for revenge and hatred is natural and her personality (so they can admire this); at tny rate she does not utterly prostrate herself as Suzanne.

Suzanne is obviously such another as Levi in the concentration camp; people in solitary confinement and beat the hell out of and mistreated in US and other tyrannical nationds’ prisons ….

I would not have been able to put Suzanne at long last next to Clarissa without Vitanza’s hook. Paradoxically he takes us past the way rape is discussed by de-centering the sex.

I took brief notes on all the texts as I went through them. I wanted to be in a position when I go off that I need not worry about not having enough time to prepare or have made a bad choice when I return home and soon it’s time to teach.


A photo Jim took of me in 2005, at Stanton Drew, the summer we spent 3 weeks in August in England with Laura and Izzy, among other things in Somerset going round to neolithic and Arthurian sites.

I’ve been on the phone a lot for me: arrange credit cards, make sure phone is international, I bought a pretty new hat and two tops and two sweaters — I hope they all come in time — to add to the warm fleece jacket I’ll bring. As usual I’ve been anxious about the plane, and was made worse nervous by an email from AirFrance, but all seems resolved. Above all, this time I am steeling myself with these thoughts: che sera, sera. As long as the plane doesn’t fall out of the sky, I’ll make it back. What happens, happens. I hope to get there but if the people won’t give me seat (almost happened twice), scrutinize me (it’s now the policy of ICE to harass people who behave in the slightest way non-conformist), if they don’t let me on the plane, I’ll just come home. If on the way I get lost, I’ll find my way — it’s not likely; only one changeover of plane. Philosophically one can’t. Once I get there, I’ll try to have a good time — Sunday I’ll pick the right books to get me through. I have wanted to see the Lake District since 1974 when I had a a fantastically bad miscarriage, which turned into a abortion to save my life and Jim and I saw only the hospital in Kendal for 5 days; the places all look beautiful, soothing, peaceful. I’m interested in Beatrice Potter, it’s Scotland once again, Lindisfarne gospels, a castle. What’s not to like? (the Road Scholar site is worryingly down this morning so I can’t link the description of the trip in).

And this will be the last time for such a jaunt. I overspent ludicrously last year, and still overspent this. I can’t keep it up — says my financial advisor, or I need to be more careful. I’ve now seen Cornwall, the Hebrides and Inverness, gone to a Trollope conference, to a Charlotte Smith one and saw Chawton Library. So after this all trips must be something I must do for a serious purpose: research in a library in Cornwall or London (say for my Winston Graham project); or if a truly good friend wants to go with me to a place I truly want to go (and for under 8 days unless there is library research involved), the conference where there are friends (no wretched nights in soulless hotels), where there are papers I know I will understand and like (or for Izzy’s sake, JASNA, but not when it’s so far away as to need planes, and no more obscenely luxurious alienating hotels).  If possible no more planes when not going outside the US. Jim used to talk of boats. Yes. As when I took tests, went for interviews, I look forward to when it’s over and I’ve had the time away, that Monday morning when I’ll be home with my cats safe and and re-transplanting myself into my routine of reading, writing, studying, movie watching, going to and taking courses, with life with friends on the Net my solace, and forays out to plays, movies, concerts, the like (in the daytime when alone as I expect I shall be most of the time).

People tell me how much better I look than the first years Jim died. That I looked paralyzed or just very bad. In my heart I feel not much different. If anything, lonelier, just used to it. I know I can survive. I have found trustworthy good people to help me whom I can pay, now AARP to do my taxes, compensating activities I enjoy very much, some of them I would not have known of when Jim was here. A new kind of meaning. I’ve learned a lot. Maybe I’m learning to be my own person irrespective of what others think and no longer seeking someone, any one, company, but doing the difficult task of living on myself and finding meaning from within — I’m strained around 4-5 still, tired, and need that first glass of wine badly. Sometimes coming home from some social experience I drink too quickly to calm myself the way I used to when Jim was here. No life activities seem to come without some ordeal.  I deny that I have changed essentially from that first night I saw the medics take Jim’s body away, just adjusted, learnt to hold what I must do to be able to remain tranquil, with some enjoyment, a sense of doing something worth doing which I can contribute to others.

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Sideview

Last Friday finally the Roseland garden people sent out their crew and I’ve a new garden. Neighbors look approvingly as they walk by and even talk to me while I’m watering the new life. Here is one of the four new flower beds to go with the two magnolias. It’s all very symmetrical: two flower beds in front; One directly in front of house, one in front of fence by sidewalk; miniature maple at center; then on each side of house more flower beds with small evergreens too. All perennials. A picture of one of the new beds …


Flowers in the front


Evergreen shrubs to one side


The other side of the house

A little classical French designed garden! I love clarity, simplicity, order — I used to be a reader of Pope’s poetry and now I make a garden with his in mind. The crew came this morning and we’ve agreed they will come once a month to weed, to help if any of the plants need help, give advice. In fall (October) I’d like them to plant chrysanthesums — I think they are beautiful. Next spring under the miniature maple replant daffodils and crocuses and in front the house on the sidewalk by the street a small cherry blossom tree. Centered in a line from the miniature maple.

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All teaching and going to courses came to an end the third week of July. The week-long course in Emily Dickinson and Henry David Thoreau I attended was fulfilling because I read for the first time ever (!) a good deal of Waldon Pond, all of Civil Disobedience and Slavery in Massachusetts, and a good essay on Thoreau by Laura Dassall Wall (his biographer), Writing Henry’s Life, as well as bought the modern edition of Dickinson’s poems. Reading the poems in a new revealing order and new ones too. Civil Disobedience helped me teach Woolf’s Three Guineas during that same week. I moved into a detour on Thoreau by way of Woolf’s allusions to Antigone as following a higher law of true morality as opposed to state laws:

Thoreau was strongly anti-slavery, an open abolitionist and it was dangerous to be so even up north and in the west in the US. Thoreau says we have a duty to disobey since when what is happening to people is criminal. Black people are people who are enslaved – they are not ontologically slaves and when they try to escape this deeply wrong violated condition, a law is passed demanding others help the criminals re-enslave them. Civil Disobedience argues against obeying the Fugitive Slave Act ,which Thoreau tears down as contrary to God – but he only brings in God at the end, it is more a matter of deep violation of human beings’ right to liberty and life. Decades ago I gave a course in American Literary Masterpieces at AU (in the college itself) where I did a lot of reading in American literature and discovered that just about every controversy, everything was colored by this existence of slavery, and also that those who enslaved others were shamelessly violent. What he says about slavery in Massachusetts is that those who don’t own slaves and do nothing about it are themselves profiting from slavery and that’s why they uphold the Fugitive Slave Act. Like today in Trump’s America where the armies are brought out to attack and cause violence among peaceful demonstrators and then arrest them, and do nothing to violent right-wing groups who come and attack, so Thoreau says the armed people come to attack the innocent and good and support the criminals. One area I had forgotten was why US people wanted to take over Mexico: among the reasons was Mexico was a good place for someone enslaved to escape to. And in one of the cases he discusses what happened was an enslaved man was snatched back and brought back to Massachusetts. How shameful he says this is. He urges civil disobedience does this mid-century transcendentalist.

The teacher was embarrassingly bad — despite her array of prestigious awards, positions, published book. The way she went about justifying Thoreau made him unlikable, utterly egoistic; she kept finding the worst normative values, and then would impossibly fatuously idealize the man. Luckily the class resisted her attempt to make Dickinson back into the high school texts of cutsy whimsy. Would you believe she sat and read aloud passages detailing the wonderful peaceful deaths of these poet spirits? You couldn’t stop her. One cannot expect Adrienne Rich in Vesuvius at Home, but a pollyanna? here is one she did read aloud but hurried past:

I have never seen “Volcanoes”—
But, when Travellers tell
How those old – phlegmatic mountains
Usually so still –

Bear within – appalling Ordnance,
Fire, and smoke, and gun,
Taking Villages for breakfast,
And appalling Men –

If the stillness is Volcanic
In the human face
When upon a pain Titanic
Features keep their place –

If at length the smouldering anguish
Will not overcome –
And the palpitating Vineyard
In the dust, be thrown?

If some loving Antiquary,
On Resumption Morn,
Will not cry with joy “Pompeii”!
To the Hills return! F165 (1860) J175

I found a blog sheerly on Dickinson’s poetry and this explication:

If humans are like dormant volcanoes, then the face may be quite still while a “pain Titanic” (referring to Titans and the convulsing pain that followed their utter defeat) smolders within. But like an awakened volcano the pain will eventually burst through, overcoming the “Vineyard” of the body (its living wine and fruits), ultimately causing its death and burial “in the dust.” And yet there is the hope of “Resumption Morn” (and Dickinson takes religious liberties here with the idea of Resurrection – as if life were to simply resume rather than the souls resurrected into a new spiritual state in heaven) where even Pompeii, the fabulous city famously buried by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius will shake off its ashes in response to the call of a “loving Antiquary” or historian.

This is the first of several poems Dickinson will write that liken her passions to volcanoes. Unlike later poems, though, this one ends on a note of hope. The historian can recall his beloved Pompeii. Perhaps whoever aroused this passion in the poet will also call her back to life as well

I thought of Scott’s Antiquary (which is one of his novels I do like very much, and one Austen was still alive to read) and Susan Sontag’s The Volcano Lover, which maybe I’ll teach again next summer.


Emily Dickinson

After great pain, a formal feeling comes—
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs—
The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,
And Yesterday, or Centuries before?

The Feet, mechanical, go round—
Of Ground, or Air, or Ought—
A Wooden way
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone—

This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered, if outlived
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow—
First—Chill—then Stupor—then the letting go—

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I did go out somewhere beyond daily shopping and errands three times in the weeks since: twice to see a movie. Once for a lecture on the Nancy Drew books (a “special at OLLI, which deserves a blog of its own). Once for a long walk.  With my friend, Panorea. We also saw on another day Leave No Trace, directed by Debra Granik who with Anne Rossellini also wrote the screenplay. Very much worth seeing. It was very powerful, deeply upsetting at moments for me, it reminded me of Cathy Come Home (1960s British seeming documentary) because our two central characters, Will, a father in his later 40 or so, and Tom, a daughter aged around 15 are homeless a good deal of the time. And we see the miseries, the difficulties, and by implication, the terrors of such an existence. They get sick, come near death.

We understood it differently: My friend saw it as anti-war and full of grief for veterans we’ve thrown away — she took it the father was a Vietnam vet. He shuddered when helicopter went by. Now I detest helicopters myself. I wouldn’t go in one. She even cried over the father and those the two me on the road as she saw them all as vets. They are taking pills of all sorts – but then US people now are in an addiction mode in large numbers we are told. One of the people we hear of is a man who cannot bear to be with people. He is left a care package each week. I could not understand why the father had this need to run away from people to the point he could live around them — even if they made it clear he need never come out of his trailer. He is given a dog who attaches himself but he cannot attach himself to the dog.

I saw it as a parable of US life today, bunches of people who live in shacks, broken down trailers, corrugated iron huts, with its central tale about this profoundly disturbed man who is living with his daughter in a wood, filthy, dirty, they are picked up by authorities who are (amazingly) supportive of them in various ways; once they are cleaned up and in better health, the father insists on leaving while the girl has become happier by joining with other children caring for rabbits (all symbolic that); on the second mad trek to nowhere they both nearly die, finally the girl rebels and will not run away from a trailer someone has just about given them. I became upset when she left “civilization” for a second time with him and when she seemed to be doing it for a third time, it was so distressing. But she turned round and went back to the trailer she had rented – the kindness of the woman owner made it come cheap

If my friend is correct, and Leave No Trace about US vets, all of them together I can get why they are not overtly mistreated by authorities or when they come into contact with others. Last summer a film called Wilderness was again about a father (mothers who flee are probably imprisoned) this time fleeing with a son

I include the poster in the hope the reader might recognize this movie somewhere and thus have a chance to see it

Gavagai, an extraordinarily mesmerizing intelligent movie, was at the Sunday morning Film Club: Gavagai. The description at IMDB is ludicrously wrong: it shows how telling the literal truth can miss everything about a movie that matters.

The German businessman turns out to be a poet and as the movie unfolds we discover he is grieving deeply over the death of his wife and has decided to translate her poems written in Chinese into Norwegian (it’s co-written with Kirk Kjeldsen). We first see him getting off a broken down train (probably unrealistic as this is Norway), but maybe because it is arriving in a very small town in a rural area. He has to bribe a tourist guide, who at first seems to be a dense vulgar abrasive male, to take him to where he wants to go. The movie is their journey across the Norwegian landscape together as they reveal slowly to us their inner lives and dreams, mostly through imagery and voice-over Gradually the apparent lout is revealed to be a man estranged from a girlfriend he treated badly and over the course of the movie he manages to reconcile with her by texting her, visiting her in stop overs. He cannot get the poet to confide in him or be at all warm to him or anyone; the poet dreams of his wife at night — strange dreams with her dressed in extravagant Asian outfits. The same actress plays the ghostly wife and estranged girlfriend. It’s as if women are interchangeable to this director, and in a way they are treated as objects in the males’ dream lives. There are many correspondences and parallels between their experiences and thoughts: the climax of the film culminates on tall mountain where the poet scatters his wife’s ashes; there follows a quiet denouement which has a church-like feel as the poet walks away still in grief and never getting over it and the driver with his girlfriend join a group of people on the beach, making a bonfire. It’s summer. Beautifully photographed, long slow scenes.

It reminded me of Derek Garman and also my favorite Last Orders. A finer poetically expressive movie than you will come across in a long time. Rob Tregenza, the director runs the film program in a Virginia College (VCU) and doesn’t have all that many connections so it’s not played at festivals but is gradually gaining adherents or attention (I have no idea how) and will open in NYC and LA.

One of my favorite poets: this by her is appropriate to Gavagai:

Man Alone on a Mountain

​You stand on a black rock pinnacle with your back toward me
and look out over a rock-strewn valley which is half-hidden in mist.
In your long black coat, knee-boots and walking stick,
you seem a stranger from another century.

Before you the lower mountains, sharp
with black rocks, hover like a flock of petrified sheep,
that has wandered from the shepherd
until they are lost and frozen there.

Wind disturbs your red hair. Your balance seems precarious
and I wonder what brought you there
where the fog obscures so much?
How long did you climb and with what difficulty?
Why are you alone and what are you looking for?

Why does anyone climb to such a place? Once,
in winter, driving by myself after a snowstorm,
I pulled off the road by the trail that led up Avon Mountain.
And, wanting to see if I could do it, I struggled up the slope
which was slick with a foot of snow and ice.

My breath like sleet in my chest, my leg muscles,
unused to such climbing, ached with the strain.
A few clumps of snow fell from the pine branches onto the trail.
To this day, I don’t know what I was thinking.
If I had slipped and fallen no one knew where I was.

But you, I wish you well, stranger with the hidden face.
You seem self-assured as you stand there
sturdy but wholly alone under an uncertain sky–
its diffuse clouds, one taller mountain before you
a gray-blue blur in the distance.

​Patricia Fargnoli

Izzy and Laura went out twice together: to the US open for tennis, and this Sunday with two friends they will see Hamilton at the Kennedy Center. Izzy has studied the musical play and songs and read Chernow’s biography (my presents to her two Christmases ago). She’s been to three museum exhibits in DC. Don’t even think about the cost they paid for these tickets.


Francis Luis Mora, Rosemary, his daughter, The Little Artist

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I conclude with some music my good FB friend provided for all of us who are her friends one morning:

This will probably be my last diary entry until I return.

Ellen

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Ian McKellan Mr Holmes in the movie; yes, that’s the great actress Hattie Morahan in the back. The film also had Laura Linney in it. What more could you ask?

Sexual intercourse began
(which was rather late for me) –
Between the end of the “Chatterley” ban
And the Beatles’ first LP.

Up to then there’d only been
A sort of bargaining,
A wrangle for the ring,
A shame that started at sixteen
And spread to everything.

Then all at once the quarrel sank:
Everyone felt the same,
And every life became
A brilliant breaking of the bank,
A quite unlosable game.

So life was never better than
In nineteen sixty-three
(Though just too late for me) –
Between the end of the “Chatterley” ban
And the Beatles’ first LP.
Annus Mirabilis by Philip Larkin (1922-1985) — Larkin was one of Jim’s favorite poets; the poem is meant ironically; fucking is not all, you must also do it from the heart

Friends,

That’s the latest advice I’ve had, and it was well meant. Do I want to do this Winston Graham/Poldark book? The difficulty in following it is not that the “sign” is too ambiguous, as in “follow nature” in the 18th century and ever since; but what is meant clearly to me carved out by the heart’s longings are in still desperate need of such different, contradictory and ceaselessly self-precluding food. Self-precluding. I don’t travel from home because I want to. I go out to teach and I post and blog because I need to.

This was in regards to my Winston Graham project, which I proceed at with such a snail’s pace (since I do much else in order to be with people and to feel I am useful in the world) I may not be ready to write until I’m dead. I have to make up my mind what I want. My sincere answer to that is it’s not what I want to do, but what I can. To sustain the will to live on actively (in the face of what is emerging as a fascist racist dictatorship funded by very sophisticated groups of super-rich people, enforced by a ferocious criminalizing police and court system, voted in by groups of people whose impoverished miserable lives fill them with hate and fear) I need the larger calm perspective provided by participating in socializing at whatever cost of time. And there is what I believe I will be able to publish after I’ve written it. I’ve learned to publish something takes social skills and vital permissions; to disseminate it, active connections.

I have begun listening to Oliver Hembraugh reading aloud Graham’s Angry Tide. Graham’s tone is what draws me in. So quietly intelligent and insightful, thoroughly realistic truthful as he can be about the era from the point of view of vulnerable, fringe people, those with hearts. I find the book has a quiet charm similar to what I found in the non-Poldark Dangerous Pawn and is found now and again when a book is set in Cornwall the tone is sustained.

I have managed to store up (like some squirrel) a couple of publicly shared experiences in the past couple of weeks, which it’s possible may come your way. During the time I am at these functions or places I forget what is happening in the public sphere, though I fear eventually the “mowing the lawn” will get to me and mine.


Theo and Kevin in the play

Last Sunday I went to Ken Urban’s The Remains as acted at the Studio Theater in DC (directed by David Muse). reminds me I had planned to buy a copy of The Gabriels, another play set in a family group over dinner or an occasion; The Remains reminds me of Nelson’s The Gabriels which I saw 2 years ago now and Karam’s The Humans which I saw last year. Nelson’s Gabriels is three plays — like Stoppard’s Norman Conquests, the same storyline and characters gone over from three different perspectives and time of day or night. Karam’s Humans is one night and not as good, but the family has gone over the edge economically

Ken Urban’s The Remains was astonishingly openly acted, with all emotional life on display. The story is of a pair of gay men whose marriage/partnership has failed or broken up. They have filed for divorce. They have invited the parents of one of them, Theo (Glenn Fitzgerald), American, Jewish, over for dinner, and Andrea (Danielle Skraastad) the sister of the other, Kevin (Maulik Pancholy), to tell them. The action consists of the reactions of these people, the revelations of their lives and a slow exposure to the final climax of the two men opening up before the audience what has happened within their private relationship.

One of the origins of their estrangement is Kevin is Indian, and so non-white, and after his degree from Harvard (! — much admired that he went there), and dissertation (also admired), he could not get any job above adjunct in Boston; to obtain these signs of respect and money (for comfort, a life in dignity and security for the rest of his life), he had to move to Oregon where he dislikes the school and culture. Kevin became very embittered and could not help taking this out on Theo (or so Theo felt it). They seem to have enough money because Theo has given up his humanities career in university (we are not told much about this) to become a lawyer.

Another source is their sex life has not gone well, and Theo seems to have broken their agreement not to have other lovers and to tell the truth about any other sexual encounter or partner. The assumption not gone into is that it is somehow more “natural” or part of their gay orientation to have more than one partner, and that is why they vowed not to do it because they wanted a total commitment.

Their different races have also been part of what caused the estrangement: Kevin feels Theo is turned off because he’s not white. Theo is the more vulnerable personality, he has had much more support from his parents; Kevin is adopted and the white parents keep their distance from Kevin and his sister.

Odd thing about the reviews of this one: one emphasized how well off this gay couple is, what a fancy kitchen. It’s not — they are okay — is being okay nowadays rare?

I mentioned in my previous blog that I saw Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach last Thursday or Friday (as is common with movies from his books, he did the screenplay). Dominic Cooke, the director of the TV films from Shakespeare, The Wars of the Roses 1 & 2 (from the 7 play Hollow Crown series). Chesil Beach is about a young heterosexual couple who cannot consummate on their wedding night: quite explicitly about the ravages of repressed sexuality (and fear and condemnation from the usual religious angles) and class differences. Their relationship is destroyed because he is very angry over the way he has been treated.

The two come together in my mind as exploring similar things. Both spoke home to me. Both are retrospective. The Remains is also about how lonely the two men are now; there is this moving epilogue of the character coming out to tell the audience in a singsong fashion about what life is like for them now. How Theo has not gotten over the loss of Kevin is made plain, but indirectly we see Kevin just has disintegrated too. On Chesil Beach is a series of flashbacks from the the wedding night but it then fast forwards too to show the two now. At one point the movie manages to allude to Philip Larkin’s famous poem where he says sexual intercourse began in 1963 and came with the Beatles. I know what he means, and this is an experience akin to what I knew in my teens and attitudes of mind almost impossible to shake. The movie is more upbeat because it’s a movie intended for general audiences and has this emotional bath at the conclusion where while the girl obviously got over her paralysis, married, had children and a wonderful career while the young man just became the owner of a very shabby music store (he had gotten his degree but it was clear without the girl’s father he had no chance for a middle class job). We see him weeping at a concert where her group of musicians is honored. She weeps too. I began reading the book, what a felicitiously unobtrusive simple style, I’m told it ends quietly and bleakly — as this core would probably from such a situation.

Although all four by men the males in his case do go into women’s true point of view: Kevin’s sister for example has lived through the hell of two broken marriages. Nelson’s characters are centrally women, all but one is a woman.
One troubling aspect to not lose sight of: at each step there is less larger political perspective. The Remains never touched upon our present economic situation as what has destroyed Kevin’s chances and made his race an over-the-top liability; The Humans showed such desperation no one could get him or herself to discuss the political situation.

This evening Izzy and I saw a HD screening documentary, biography style film, Ian McKellen: Playing the Part where he is the central continuing speaker — about him, his life, his career. Don’t miss this one either. Yes there is hype, yes he promotes himself but the film functions as a history of 20th century theater too since McKellan was so much a part of the evolution from actors who were part of the theater but not film before the spread of TV, demonstrating how important and often better or more genuine authentic were small and provincial theaters beyond London (McKellan was the moving force in the Actors Company — I didn’t know that). It was about gay history in the 20th century: before this century there could be no history since anyone who came out was subject to terrifying humiliating fatal punishments. I remember seeing him live with Jim at the Kennedy Center as Richard III. McKellen said that was a turning point in his life, when he turned that into film as a director. Jim got a kick out of how he handled a cigarette. I remember the large facsimile of a train on stage. For McKellen it opened the film industry to him finally.


Milo Parker

How I enjoyed two summers ago now Mr Holmes. Milo Parker who played the boy who loves Mr Holmes in that played the young McKellen in this documentary. I hope I put the book away in a place I can find it. If I should give up Graham, that would be one I’d try. Alas he’s won no Oscars thus far. The academy fears a homophobic part of the public.

Follow your heart: Ian McKellan was worth listening to for himself, for how he sees his life: he made it plain that he feels the driving force inside that made him an actor who could open up his intelligent passionate emotional life to others was his homosexuality. He was cut off from others; he had to hide himself. In order to reach others, he had to do it through this disguise, and so he did out — of a need for other human beings. He also regards himself as someone whose task it is to help others get through life by offering himself in the persons of these characters. Other people spend long hours at work, long hours of frustration and then they come to the theater and during the time they are there, you as actor are affecting them. Perhaps you can help them improve themselves or feel better by the emotional catharsis you offer, or the humor you enact. When a cruel law was promulgated by Thatcher over and above the anti-homosexual laws of the UK, he came out and worked hard to defeat it. It was passed, but no other was and it was then nullified by the change in attitudes towards gay people he and others in permanent institutions they set up continue to create. The AIDS crisis was another transformation: as an actor he went about extending the campaign to save as many people as he could.


When young as David Copperfield

Now he goes into schools and tries to help others by telling of his life as a gay man. He said they teach him, young people. They don’t want to be seen as categories — he has the generosity of heart to break out of his way of thinking and say, well yes. Why should he see himself as a gay man. He is a man, a human being first. His homosexuality does not define him, though his society tried to repress him wholly because of it. We see him living with the absurd roles he is now given in film: cartoon figures. He tries to give them depth.

But finally it is the theater that is his love. We see him with Patrick Stewart on stage doing Waiting For Godot. There was one at the Shakespeare theater this summer and I didn’t go — I should have. He said while the production is on, the rehearsals, the acting, the aftermath he becomes part of this group as a family. He knows so many actors like himself for years. He is alone now, no family, and he lives his life in effect among strangers. But he is buoyed by the sharing of this great talent and his gifts. We see his long-standing relationships in private: the men who were his partners are glimpsed. He singles out Judy Dench and a few others who live a life of meaning with him. He thinks of death frequently, has planned his funeral, is sad because he wont be able to be there.

I am writing from the heart; when I write even academic papers I write them from the heart; that’s why I can’t pretend them or make them come unless I believe in them. I try to teach from the heart. Post to the Internet, blog from the heart. Those texts written from the heart are the ones I look for and nourish myself on. There are people, as Shakespeare says, who seem to have no heart or only hard and selfish ones. How I love the actress Hattie Morahan in Davies’s 2008 Sense and Sensibility: like Holmes, she puts her inside self before us and reaches us fully.


Hattie Morahan as my favorite character, Elinor Dashwood


The local arts celebrity; Aubrey Davies was there to commemorate his mother.

I attended the abbreviated Bloomsbury day reading held at the OLLI at AU (1:30 to nearly 6:00 reading and talking of the Ithaca chapter, second to the last in Joyce’s Ulysses: it did teach me that chapter has alive vitality and the book may be readable — its outpouring of brilliant beautiful language reminded me of how I lost a female Telemachus (a young woman actually tried to chat me up at a function for Columbia grad students Jim and I went to. So after a six-year hiatus (Jim read one year and remarkably well) I returned to Jim’s worn and falling apart copy of Joyce’s book.


A married couple at OLLI reading together.

Both of my classes going splendidly — the Woolf too, and tomorrow is my film club. This coming week I go to another HD screening at the Folger: a DC original production of a re-write, modernization of Shakespeare’s Midsummer’s Night Dream. The coming Saturday another mass demonstration across the US — what else do we have? Wall-to-wall people in the Metro paralyzes it so I may phone the Smithsonian to ask if they might re-schedule a Gilbert and Sullivan program they had scheduled for that morning. Real acting and singing from the musicals. Izzy and I were looking forward to it. How will anyone get there? Be sensible I’ll say. Very unlucky for that later afternoon (by mistake) I bought tickets for us to go to Wolf Trap Barns theater to see Mozart’s Idomeneo. Our first opera this year. We can still go as it will be in Fairfax but if we want to the demonstration we’d never be back in time.

A bad time over my boy pussycat, Ian aka Snuffy cat. About a week ago Ian had a crying jag around dawn, and it was not that Izzy would not let him into her room. He had at the time also developed a sore by his eye. I took him to the vet and she said his heart rate was worrying high: blood pressure 240. The bill for an “emergency” visit and tests was a whopping $455. She gave me pills to give him but he fought me so and then hid from me for a full day and one half (something he has not done for over a year and more now), that I gave it up. I was able to put the eye salve on and his eye is better. No crying jags.

Well I went again for a follow-up and the tests I paid for apparently say together (with her listening) that the cat has a heart murmur. It would cost me $1100 to have the blood, cardiac and other tests for a diagnosis and then I’d have to give him medicine the rest of his life if the diagnosis showed there is a medicine he could take. It could be three a day. But I was unable to get him to take medicine this week at all so I decided not to do it.

I do love this cat now — if you could see how most of the time he is a transformed personality and no longer hides most of the time but is affectionate to me and Izzy, playful, remembering what we do over the day and joining in. Right now he is on my map rubbing his face against mine. He now sticks by me most of the day. We shall have an appt every six months to see how he’s doing.


What we are reading together on WomenWriters@groups.io – thus far arresting, persuasive story about Muslim young woman who grew up in Pakistan come to do graduate work in Boston, Mass

Ellen

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By modern street artist, Banksy: how the Palestinians in Gaza are forced to die, c. 2010 (From Desmond’s Cats in Art)

Friends,

The strangest phenomenon: birds who fly by or live around my house have begun to sing at around 2 am. (Yes I am up at that time all too frequently.) In my married life we had periods where Jim had to be woken at 5 am regularly to get work on time, we’d hear them. He’s said “a jocund chorus!” and me: “goddamn noisy birds.” And by 5:30 the birds awake, chattering, jittering. Now they begin at 2, only they remain much softer. How is this? Can it be climate change? The air is warmer at 2 in the morning than it once was?

Struggles have included trying to extract out of Carbonite some of my files which contained five years of hard work towards papers which didn’t make it from the hard drive to this new computer. No one to tell. Successes: my class on Trollope’s He Knew He Was Right at OLLI at Mason went splendidly: what good talk we had, how much they enjoyed reading the book, the screening of that BBC film I wrote a paper about. I have begun Trollope’s short stories over at OLLI at AU and it is already going very well. Everyone reading, everyone commenting.  Such experiences tempt me to teach Trollope over and over.

Books I’ve not mentioned much, but have read with intense attention — for this past season that you must not miss: with the friends on Trollope&Peers, Paul Scott’s Jewel in the Crown (1st volume of Raj Quartet). Utterly relevant on race power. I want to teach it with another Anglo-Indian book, will blog on it separately (see Staying On).

I have signed up for a week’s course in July at the OLLI at AU: Emily Dickinson and Thoreau. The teacher promised “optimism,” but I hope there will be no such falsifying agenda as the texts must be themselves. I’ve never read any Thoreau beyond what is quoted in essays. I feel empathy; I know he could get away with his life because Emerson supported him. I know too that a number of Emerson’s poems and Dickinson’s are comparable.


Ginsburg testifying

To share: Don’t miss RBG (Ruth Bader Ginsburg) (good short review in New York Times); one of it catchy moments occurs when she announces at her hearing for the supreme court the question, “What do women want?,” by quoting an American feminist of the 1830s: “All I ask is that our brethren take their feet from off our necks.” You learn how she took narrowly conceived cases where a woman was asking for redress against some specific injustice (in the work place) and expanded her outlook to use the case as a source for legislative precedent to prevent unfair discrimination in jobs, positions in organizations. You see she could not have achieved the places on benches she did without her very successful tax lawyer of a husband’s cooperation, encouragement, taking over jobs in the house, moving with her to DC, himself making phone calls, lobbying for her. I learned #thenotorious RGB comes from the song of a young black man gunned down in the streets (for being black and successful).


Hopkins as homeless Lear, Jim Broadbent the eyeless Gloucester (read Spectator review)

A truly great BBC production of Shakespeares’s King Lear last night aired on BBC (and sent me as a DVD by a good friend). It was as good as The Hollow Crown series where the language is done brilliantly naturalistically and the scenes set in remarkably appropriate places (Lear on the heath is in a refuge camp), the scene where Lear has escaped the heath and is headed for Dover with its dialogue in a mall. Lear and his fool reminded me of Vladmir and Estragon in Waiting for Godot.

Anthony Hopkins managed to make the role fresh and new — not easy. They did that opening scene which can be so tedious superbly effectively. It was cut — the film was something like 2 hours and most Lears are 3+ The Hollow Crown series did not seem cut– though of course Henry VI was abridged into two parts.


Tobias Menzies as Cornwall, Regan (Emily Watson)’s husband

Emma Thompson has made Dame — i read just now. She was Goneril and stole every scene she was in. I know she can play hard mean people. My favorite Emily Watson was there, Regan and she did the soft spoken sexy but unflinchingly cruel woman brilliantly. Eccleston as Oswald Jim Carter as Kent, Karl Johnson the fool New actors Ive not seen before and superb as Edgar and Edmund – they brought out the intense rivalry as a motif with Edgar first seen at a computer as an intellectual; their final battle was violent boxing. Andrew Scott and Tobias Menzies was strikingly effective as Cornwall, Regan’s evil husband. It’s he who plucks out Gloucester’s eyes and has the memorable line: Out, vile jelly. He had all sorts of appropriate gestures. Really held his own among great actors– (late of Outlander and still missed as his characters have died, soon to be Phiiip in the Crown). One weakness: she was adequate but no more: the Cordelia.

Why was this not on PBS? at one time it would have been, not so long ago — Now we don’t even hear of it.


Cumberbatch as the father playing with the daughter in supermarket before they are separated

Two Ian McEwans: on Showtime a BBC film of The Child Lost in Time (philosophical review), with Bernard Cumberbatch as the distraught father whose 2 year old disappears from the supermarket and 15 years later has still not been found. How this event changed the lives of father, mother, and by extension, their friends and neighbors. At the movie-theater On Chesil Beach. Astounding bravery in dramatizing the failure to consummate their marriage by Edward, the lower middle class hero (who with his family has as burden a disabled mother) and Florence, the middle middle girl, a musician, with father owning extensive businesses, factories, loving him but terrified of sex. His barely controlled anger at the rest of the world cannot forgive her or accept her offer to live chastely with him, his lack of patience and her sheltered ignorance, break them up. He has no further possibilities of leaving his environment, she rises to be the musician we realize when her daughter comes into Edward’s shop years later to buy the one pop singing star that Florence could stand. This heartbreak more frequent than we realize is brought out into the open as they remember their courtship and engagement.


On Chesil Beach –read the thoughtful analytic review — gentle reader as someone who came of age just before 1963 this is a story I have experienced

Izzy and I went to a production of Camelot in DC: she was enormously absorbed, entertained. Tears came to my eyes but once: the man singing Lancelot’s “If ever I would leave you … ” Of course he would never. Each summer since Jim’s death is harder than the last. But how innocent this show, how sad I felt measuring the distance between hope then and the shameful cruelty of barely disguised fascist regime we live under now.


Beryl Cook, Bunny and Nipper c. 1970s (from Desmond’s Cats in Art)

Online I’ve been following the Future Learn course, A History of Royal Fashion. While the details of how clothes were made, and this normative super-rich and powerful dressers tells about how the poor and majority wanted to look or perceived how they should look if they could, I am appalled by the time and energy put into the smallest item of a particular individual’s dress (say the lace veil in a wedding garment). It is more than the fetishizing of stars in media that we see: it’s a deeply perverse over-valuing of a particular individual because he or she is rich, has power. If in all the six weeks thus far, someone had mentioned this qualification, but not a peep. The people who make these arguments seem so unaware of how absurd that they should spend their best energies, terrific skills in making tiny additions to some super-rich “numinous” person’s dress. I had hoped it would be more about costume for the era itself. Every inch of fabric Edward VIII wore cost the public (for where did the money come from) enormously — in the early 1930s this was:


He fetishized every single inch of any outfit — teams of people now kept in jobs recreating and preserving this stuff.

And widening out as something for us all to work on: that human and animal suffering, emotional lives, fulfillment and peace are closely aligned. Goodall demonstrated we must treat animals as individuals first. The anthropomorphic approach is the right one. What is at stake: our capacity for humane behavior to all who occupy created space with us. That they are without talk does not give us the right to ignore their loving dependent presence. I’ve finished Desmond Morris’s Cats in Art and cannot over-recommend the book for its talk, insights, and plethora of fascinating pleasing image: ample for another separate blog.

Two angles: the artist expresses emotion through the content of his picture, and we contemplate and enjoy his or her vision through aesthetic criteria. How many selves have we got? Writing and social; innate and outward; the dreaming center and socially functional role-playing; the empathetic idealist, and the practical prudential actor. I still feel I have little control over all that goes on around me. My own space I can order, keep tidy, work in. My natural impulse withdraw.

A snug fleece jacket has arrived for me to take with me to the Lake District in August.

I sit in my sun-room in the front of the house quietly reading as cats adjust to living in this new space too. Four working computers nowadays, all in use: this PC Dell Desktop, my Macbook pro laptop, my Apple ipad and my cell phone. Reaching out …. I know I should listen to music more and am glad of Izzy’s play lists in the dining room as we make our supper nightly together.


Clarycat one New Year’s Eve: Jim was playing the piano as he often did in the early morning and that night late evening. I was sitting opposite, watching, listening

A tactless (tone-deaf?) woman said to me, “Five years … that’s a long time.” I wish I had said back, “It’s not even yesterday.” Sometimes I feel such loneliness I don’t know what to do with my despair. Then I am so grateful for my cats who lick (kiss) and rub up (hug) and play with me, stay by me: were it not for them how empty so many of my hours despite all my efforts at books and going places I can get to.

Ellen

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Vanessa Bell, Interior with the artist’s daughter (1935-36)

Friends,

You see before you an image I’ve just scanned in using my new computer to test whether the computer’s imagery making gadgetry is working. It is. So too its print making capacity. Yes, I’ve acquired a new Dell PC Desktop Computer, and am almost “back in business.” Not all my files have been transferred (precious ones not here here include the Charlotte Smith files) and a few other glitches and helps in installing, and I’ll be back where I was on May 18th when my previous computer gave up its inner ghost. These two weeks I’ve again learned what a remarkably able computer is my laptop in the corner, a Macbook Pro (apple).

I’ve two themes tonight: library memories and recognition of some contrasting aspects of human experience. The first is a result of coming across an article in the Times Literary Supplement (probably my favorite periodical) for May 25, 2018, “Speaking Out of the Silence;” at the Hay Festival this year (I’ve no idea what that is or where it’s held), speakers were asked to share “significant memories and thoughts relating to libraries.” I notice it because I would and this past week I renewed my Reader Identification card at the Library of Congress for the first time since around 2003. I was required to sit up close face-front to a camera:


A bit blurred because it’s a cell phone photo of the card’s photo of me (this past Tuesday)

I had come to read a rare book by Winston Graham, one of his pre-Poldark novels, The Dangerous Pawn (rather good, promising, containing many of the Cornish elements, melancholy, quietude, and early sketches of interesting characters later found in Poldark country) and the next day spent as much time as my strength allowed reading it in the main reading room. Upon first coming in and settling down, I thought to myself, how glad I am “I made Izzy a librarian.” Of course I didn’t make her a librarian, but it was my idea for a profession for her. I wondered why my parents never thought of it for me. How lucky to sit in the silence surrounded by learning. At the Pentagon where she is, and here in this library, the books are open to all.

Tonight these memories leap to mind for me. (I have many others.) The first at age 10 or so this momentous moment of being taken by my father to the “adult” part of an enormous library” — so it seemed to me — on Sutphin Boulevard in the Bronx. It was a walk and bus ride away from our apartment house. We climbed up a back stairway, and I was allowed out to take out books with his card and then given one of my own. I have to have been 10 because we moved from the Bronx to Kew Gardens, Queens, by the time I was 11.

Age 19 or so being let into an art library on 52nd street in Manhattan to study Delacroix’s illustrations for a stage production of Hamlet in Paris – it was part of my term project for an art history course art Queens College. I had to have a letter of introduction from the professor. I was not prepossessing looking I could see from the librarian’s response to me, but after a few days of quiet toil on my part, studying sketches, the librarian realized I was harmless and hardly paid attention to me at all. I didn’t have to take the final after writing that paper.

A whole slew of Saturdays (literally years) spent in the Folger Library reading poetry by women whose first editions and manuscripts the Folger had: Anne Finch (18th century English), Vittoria Colonna, Veronica Gambara (Renaissance Italian). That was the later 1980s to early 1990s; more recently in the Library of Congress around 1999-2000 I examined the first illustrations to some of Anthony Trollope’s novels by looking at periodical issues, and then around 2004 reading Anne Murray Halkett’s fragments of autobiography and a broken-off journal back in the Folger again (she was a 17th century Scots woman active in the 1640s and 50s civil war)

What unites these is how happy I was to be there, how much I enjoyed such moments. I did like research at the New York Public Library in the 1970s but it never had this cut-off idyllic sense of quietude. It was there I first became acquainted (so to speak) with Charlotte Smith (all but two of her novels were still rare). And once at the Morgan Library while I was writing my dissertation on Samuel Richardson seeing the one page fragment in his own handwriting towards a fourth novel: to be called Mrs Harriet Beaumont. Now she exists only a widow glimpsed in his Sir Charles Grandison. I remember this because the librarian hovered over me.

I asked on TrollopeAndHisContemporaries@groups.io, if anyone there had any memories to share and two generous people told of precious moments and a history of the self through such memories.


Another Vanessa Bell, A Bird Cage (yes I’m reading a good biography of her and another study of her work and that of Duncan Grant and Roger Fry)

The other is a theme or variation on related topics suggested to me by a social experience I missed out on last Saturday (the day after my computer failed). I had planned to go to monthly meeting of Aspergers adults in Washington, D.C, but in the mid-afternoon I had been further demoralized by an encounter related to my attempt to re-learn to use my Macbook pro, and its updated Word writing program experience and so gave it up when I saw rain. Or so I told myself. I had been in two minds about going, and know now I should have gone since I regretted missing it.

Among other things, they have a monthly topic, which they discuss, and it turned out to have been a significant one for me: learning to recognize significant issues and how to we can choose to deal with them. Well, I thought immediately that I have a hard time sustaining friendships. I probably recognize this one so I’m not sure it fits what was asked for, but I would have liked to talk with others about this since recognition hasn’t helped me much. Some of what happens I can recognize a bit and try to counter it: that is, I seem to become too emotionally dependent or just too close, often times when I’m really not. This is apparently how I can be perceived and I can’t always realize this is a response on the part of others or there in my behaviors. When I can recognize this is happening, I do curb it. But beyond that there are other things that happen, so multiple or various because human relationships are, and what can happen I recognize I have done something which irritates the other person only as or after I’ve done it. Usually after I’ve done it and later so it is harder to apologize. Sometimes I don’t know what it was and long experience has taught me the other person won’t tell me.

Specifically, I was widowed 5 years ago and have made continual active attempts to form friendships and have failed to sustain any for any length of time. Partly it’s that I’m old and by my age most people are utterly embedded in their ways, their relationships, their families. Just about every woman I’ve become close to is divorced, separated, never married. I’ve been unlucky: of 8, the closest a dear friend, also autistic, died of cancer this past spring. I am missing her badly. Two were intolerant, would not make the effort I was making, made fun of me when I tried. Another moved back to Paris. A last grew distant: she lives across the street, also a widow whose husband died of cancer in his mid-sixties and with a grown adult child who lives with her who is also autistic — she does have to stay with him and she has said to me that she cannot have people over too often as her son becomes uncomfortable. She is not lonely as she still have a full time job and she just does not yearn for close relationships after her husband is gone. She has told me it’s like her past has been erased. Finally one person I visited for too long: I realized there were tensions but thought we remained good friends when I left, only to find castigating emails that shocked me when I got home. She had not at all said she was displeased and I know she tried to bully me and I resisted. I’m left with one, many acquaintances and a number of long-time friends who are friends at a distance, though email. NT people think you are posing: surely this technical intuition is not hard. You cannot always be getting lost. Many cannot bear any sign of vulnerability or if you do something different than other people.

I become friends with stray women — people also at liminal points of their lives. So the friend is here temporarily. He is a man in his late-50s, a lost a long-time good job and is trying for a new one here and then doesn’t succeed so has to return home. These have been two lonely weekends without my regular computer and also from teeth pain (a part of one of my dentures broke off — ouch for my tongue; I was two hours at the dentist this week and now am very uncomfortable until the new perment denture comes in). I’d love to hear from others — is there any technique you use to try to recognize if things are going badly; anything you do regularly. I try to be patient, but silent and smiling doesn’t always work either.

I told this to other women on a (closed group) at face-book, and was so relieved to read of similar experiences and trouble where the attitude of mind was that these kinds of estrangements are even common and in their judgement just as much the result of the NT or other person’s failure of understanding. Women will decide to end a friendship suddenly and not explain why. To a person they all repeated in different forms what I gathered from a summary on-line was the considered response at the meeting I missed: one has only so much energy and time in life and it’s actually best to turn away (as it were reciprocally) and cease self-reproach. If it takes you a long time to see this decision on the part of the person, or if they shock you with sudden castigation, doesn’t matter. It is useless and worse (exhausting, leaving no time to do what we enjoy or find real profit in — I’m not talking money or some unreal prestige) to beat at walls of indifference, self-reproach.

The most common response I’ve had to such utterances is blame, or useless unrealizable advice — one is not asking for anyone to tell you what to do. Several expressed surprise at what surprises me (e.g., how so many people feel no need to reply when you write them), how it can be said that autistic and Aspergers people are insensitive! Be glad of the one or two truly meaningful relationships you have, better to stay at peace with yourself and enjoy what is in you to enjoy. People told of how much online relationships can mean.

They also talked of how it’s said or been theorized (demonstration is hard) that Aspergers & autistic people tend to have more early childhood memories, and some they had. I confided (in turn) that I remember some significant events — probably because I went to stay with relatives and this sort of disruption and separation from parents stays with a child. I remember an event when I was around 18 months old, two from when I was 3. In one left with my grandmother, she left the hot apartment to sit up on the roof because she thought I was asleep, I woke to find no one and thought I was deserted forever. In another my mother forced to do something that was deeply humiliating: I made the mistake of telling her I had to go to the bathroom (the way we put it then). In public, by the side of a car she forced me to urinate. I begged her not to do this to me. I never forgot it. And I vowed never to tell her anything again that evidenced need, and I believe I never did. She was not to be trusted to respect me. When I’ve told people this (especially NTs I think) they tell me this didn’t matter, I was only 3 so therefore it didn’t matter (what she did was humiliating for an older kid but not for a 3 year old?) nor should I remember it. My mother also tried to force me to do things I didn’t want to because she thought it was “normal” to want to do x or y. I learned to be so glad she went out to work from the time I was around 10 months old on and off all my life when I lived with her. I think all my pre 5-6 year old memories come from when I was distressed. Missing my father because I was sent to live with other relatives when they lived in an apartment where no children were allowed. Then there are a couple of this lit-up moments from when I was around 4. My continuous memory begins in kindergarten — I was 5-6. I have been told of other events that happened and ways I behaved before 6 but I don’t remember them on my own.

A self-conscious caring what other people think, including those one will probably never see again, ended our thread. The story of how I didn’t learn to ice-skate came to mind. My parents bought a pair of skates for me, and I couldn’t drive so I went with my first husband as my boyfriend. What happened what I was so nervous, anxious I went very slowly and he kept getting behind me and pushing to go faster and wouldn’t leave me be so I fell badly. Later he said “everyone was looking at us” so we can’t do that again and refused to drive me there. Why not? I asked. He just wouldn’t go with me unless I went faster. I used to assume that people would most of them automatically sympathize with me; instead I’ve had two say of course he was mortified. How terrible of you (meaning me) to behave that way. Why should I or he or she care about people we know nothing of? I remain astonished. it’s not like someone driving on the road at 3 miles an hour where others in cars begin to behave dangerously because they have to go slower. But human feeling and need must be crushed under fear of what other people think. Who cares that people might look down on you skating slowly? find you ridiculous. Anyway I never learned to ice-skate and those pretty & expensive skates went into an attic.


Paul Gaugin, Mimi and Her Cat (1890)

The above picture is the first by Gaugin I’ve ever liked. It’s found in one of my late night-time reading books: Desmond Morris’s humane Cats in Art. Morris critiques and presents attitudes towards the cat and what we can know of the lives of domestic cats since we have first proof of their existence, and how differently they have been presented in art. The key to understanding and right treatment of non-human animals (I have been reading in yet another TLS article, Barbara J. King, “Our family and other animals,” May 25 2018) is first to regard them as individuals with complex psychologies in the way initiated by Jane Goodall. Why were cats in particular persecuted for a few hundred years in Europe (partly because they were companions to women?). I will be blogging on this book soon.

Ellen

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