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Anyone with the heretical gall to ask an ironist what he actually stands for ends up looking like an hysteric or a prig. And herein lies the oppressiveness of institutionalized irony, the too-successful rebel: the ability to interdict the question without attending to its subject is, when exercised, tyranny. It [uses] the very tool that exposed its enemy to insulate itself.

David Foster Wallace

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How can I rationalize with all of my greatest idols--all men, all authors, and their misogyny.  I hate that word, it reminds me too much of college lectures denouncing Disney classics.

I have just finished reading The Kreutzer Sonata by Tolstoy. I do not think that the novel was anti-feminist at all, actually. He described a world where women can only gain power through their control of men. Where everything they do is to gain power and to manipulate men. But he also argues that this is men’s fault, as men has never viewed women as anything besides a sexual object, never given her any agency of her own, and this is the only way she can find any sort of autonomy. Well, what do you expect for the late 19th century? Despite the scathing reviews, I think it may have even been an argument for feminism--if women were presented in a bad light it was only because men had set it up to cast those specific shadows. I do not think he goes so far as to argue for a world in which women can have control over their own lives, but I certainly think he is criticizing the society that exists in which they can’t.

And how can I help but follow his moral questions of sexuality when I have felt those same sickening ideas take hold of me--however, the difference is I know mine comes from neurosis and trauma--whereas he thinks it comes from rigid morality and holiness. That is for a different web of thoughts, and one that requires too much exertion for today.

Anyway, this had me dig into Tolstoy and his characterization as a ‘misogynist.’ Which I don’t doubt that he was. His treatment of his wife is deplorable. Yet at the same time, he was self-aware. I think many of these books are more a portrait of his own failures, something he feels the need to expose. He was not a moral man, but wanted deeply to be one. His moral ineptitude comes out in these works as a way to explore what could happen (in his mind) if he let his immorality continue to take hold. I respect this more than someone who presents themselves as already moral, already holy--how many of us are? Close to none, and I appreciate his struggle. This book specifically almost read as if he was punishing himself, scolding himself. So afraid of his own impulses, he had to create a narrative out of it, bring some sense of order to his sin.

Perhaps I love Tolstoy so much because he is so aware of his moral inferiority, he exposes it to himself, and yet he knows too the serenity of spiritual purity. I don’t think he was ever able to  reconcile the two, but it is interesting to see the struggle take place within his works. He was not a great man, not even a good man, but a human. Cliche, but a revelation to me, as I am used to disregarding my idols as soon as I find  fault. 

“How can you better yourself if your idols are not perfect?”--and so I find myself turning away from idols, those are made for myth, legend, folklore, archetypes. Humans can only try to act them out, always imperfectly. That is okay, I will leave the idols where they belong, in the narratives that humans create. 

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Bastrop State Park, The morning of October 18th, 2015--you can still see the scars the fire left behind.

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I have found truths to be so opposed, and so ingrained that they are considered dogma. I experienced this with something as simple as my quest for living a simple life. Now that I type it out, that doesn’t sound very simple at all. 

My first taste of simple living was through Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations, which led me to minimalism,  buddhist philosophy, and stoicism. All of these philosophies, whether aesthetic or otherwise, lend themselves well to each other. And, because of the utter chaos and terror of my life at that time, there was something beautiful about blank slates, the isolated present. It seemed to me to be a way to find yourself first in the womb, and later in the tomb, and to bring that presence into your day-to-day life. It was a very beautiful time in my life. Spiritually and physically open and blank.

I have changed now, although I do still practice minimalism in what I buy and what I store, not through philosophical insight, but because I do still so badly want to be a traveler one day.  But I went through extended periods of time of depersonalization. In those times, I felt no connection to the world around me, I was simply living, experiencing all of the physical senses around me, and they confused me. I felt as though I was seeing them for the first time, and trying to make sense, and yet I knew that they should be familiar. Simple objects: a tree, my hand, the feeling of my skin against the bed--all unfamiliar and strange to me. Experience without the web of memories and emotion that hold the world so that it can be yours.“Is this was enlightenment is like?” I asked myself, and knew that I was not enlightened, but that this was some sort of chemical reaction that my brain, that great apothecary, was putting forth. But I had the very real sense that this may be what the stoics strive for, though I am sure they would come upon it more willingly, and perhaps more serenely. 

Now, as I age, I am at a different stage in my life. I bury myself in inspiration and emotion, and savor it, swim in it, lose myself to it. I had real trouble reconciling this with my prior philosophies. I felt myself more and more drawn to the emotional realm, beauty for beauty’s sake, self indulgent liquidity. I felt guilt, I felt as if this was not the ‘goodness’ I had found before. 

It was brought on by my Granmunner dying, and a set of embroidered handkerchiefs. I found such joy in the handkerchiefs that I couldn’t bare to keep my ‘minimalist’ principles and throw them away. 

“They are just pieces of cloth, you do not need them to prove that she existed, or that you love her, and besides, it was natural for her to die, and it is wrong of you to think otherwise,” I told myself. 

And that went on for sometime, as I kept my grief at bay with such thoughts, under the guise of philosophy and virtue. But I kept the handkerchiefs, they sit in the drawer of my nightstand--a little table that my mother had a a child, which was painted yellow, but which she spent hours sanding and scraping and staining so that now it is a beautiful, cherry oak, solid and warm with age. I bring them out, now and again, and trace their lacy edges, and bury my face in them and breathe in. And I’ve collected many such things from my family, my father’s wrought iron canopy, the swans from my mother’s mania, my grandfather’s norwegian sweater, the china of my greatest grandmother. All of them fill this space with their presence. Books filling bookshelves, pressed flowers in frames, artwork, mostly from my mother.

I experience emotion fully now, I do not push it away. There is some of that in the previous philosophy as well, you had to accept first, before you could let it go on, bypass you. But now I grab hold of it, let it take me where it will, depths and heights that I’d yet to experience. This new philosophy of mine lends itself well to concertos and artwork, to fall, to tapestries. 

I live in the in-between now. My present does not isolate itself, but builds itself around me, like rings on a tree. And I take pride in those rings, I like the additions, the accumulations. 

I think, ideally, there would be a middle ground. An otherwise blank wall, with a beautiful tapestry. A warn, wooden floor with a persian rung. Find those emotions that are most dear to you, and rid the rest. Focus on your favorite mountain to climb, and spend your time falling in love with its minutiae. Do not accumulate for accumulations sake, but with intention, and carefully. I suppose that is why the rings get thinner as they reach farther out. That is a lesson for another time. 

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Gilbert, Yvonne. The Wild Swans.

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Imaginings

My dreams have been taking me to strange places. The other night, I had the most beautiful dream, about income. I had some small business which gave me income without any work, the paycheck simply came. So I spent my days reading, writing, drawing, playing the piano, gardening. It was a nice push in the right direction--I’ve just upped my saving to 50%--I would do more but I’m in desperate need of a new car. 

The numbers and restrictions are hard on my soul. However, it should not be about numbers.  What do  I care if I have 50% 25% 0% 200% of my income? I should live my life the same regardless. Virtue, happiness, I do not think those depend on money. Perhaps gilded power and a sick sort of respect. I even hate to admit I find myself wanting to buy new wardrobes to see my friends, prove that I am doing ‘well’--but what is more important to me? Proving my status, something that would leave me just as soon with a twist of fortune, or being true to myself (with, perhaps, the chance of retiring very, very early?) 

It is not as if I live like a pauper, I simply have gotten rid of unnecessary things. Days are filled with making stews, and lounging with Mushka and Kitten, reading, writing in my journal again, and of course work. But even work is tinted with truth now. I enjoy the people I talk to every day, and I am grateful for my opportunity to have the resources to one day truly not think about money. How long will that take? Five, ten years. Those pesky numbers and detailed planning which pain me to do. Perhaps I am not a vagabond like I thought I would be once, but there is still time for that. For now, it is finding truth where I am, and living close to it.

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“In Praise of Small Kindnesses”

By Siri Live Myhrom

Today’s is a soft meditation in praise of the enormity of small kindnesses.

Like the café worker who waved enthusiastically to my father as he walked in the door of the coffee shop like she was expecting him, like he was a regular in this hipster enclave instead of a septuagenarian in khaki shorts and white tennis shoes.

He met me here on my workday so I could help him format a document — something he couldn’t figure out how to do at home no matter how many buttons he tried, something my mother always did for him in the decades after he gave up his trusty typewriter. So he arrived at the coffee shop             vulnerable and exasperated in that way             that only technology can make us feel:             like slow, dependent children — and sorely missing my mother.

Like the barista who didn’t blink when he ordered his coffee the wrong way, when he said la-TAY instead of LAH-tey, who took his order from our table as if we were in a sit-down restaurant and she was our waiter, who smiled the whole time like a halo of warm light, softening the space everywhere, who made him feel like he belonged.

You cannot know how those small gestures matter, unless you are him, unless you are me, watching, unless you see his shoulders relax,             in that way that we can do only             when we feel safe and seen enough to let go, and his eyes dampen, the tiny liquid pools held in at the rims, barely noticeable, as he smiles and says, She always knew how to do this for me. For years she did this. She would have been 69 today. How I miss her.

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My mother

Someone found my mom’s old folkloric research and they will be interviewing her for NPR’s “Latinos in the USA.” I am so, so proud of her. 

She’s almost done with her book as well (she finally started writing again, and found the old hard drive). I really think it could be something.

What a brilliant woman. I am so proud to have had such a beautiful, intelligent person bring me into this world. 

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”you have to understand, that no one puts their children in a boat unless the water is safer than the land”

—Warsan Shire, as quoted in Omid Safi’s “Love in a Time of Refugees”

[Image by Daniel Etter]

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"I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one`s neighbour-such is my idea of happiness..."

Family Happiness, Leo Tolstoy

I think this was quoted by Chris Mcandless is one of his journals--why? Only a quote to show the naiveté of youth. I guess, ironically, it fits perfectly in his journal.  Oh, that ‘novella’ was hard for me to read, as it resonated so much with my heart right now--although I have no child to content myself with. Just small goals, no substance. White-washed and blurry. 

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Three days of gluttony, seven of isolation, followed by a brief moment in which I assess my mental health

I don’t want to write a narrative.I want to write about the things I bought: scented drawer liners, Egyptian cotton sheets, a crystal vase and a forty dollar bouquet. I could feel myself come alive again, ‘Com’on Julieanne. You’ve got spirit yet,’ as i disregarded my need for a winter coat, a new pair of heels (I fucking hate heels) for a functioning car, for the stability I’ve been working so hard towards: do what’s right, clean the litter box every night, max out your 401k.

This is adult life. Consumerism is an act of rebellion, a way to break away from the dull narrative of responsibility. I’ve always loved nice, delicate, novel things. Embroidered hand towels, peonies, but then, once it’s all settled, I look back and want to vomit from all the victorian charm. Emptiness; I can't buy in to the adjectives anymore. What is this, I call this a rebellion? It is an escape--a way to justify 60 hour weeks--hypomania requires sedation. 

Who am I? What a stupid question. But that’s really what anything comes down to. I try and craft myself out of the things that I buy, the things that I indulge in, the environment I surround myself with--because I have lost myself fully. I take definitions fully fleshed, designed purely to be consumed, and I DO consume, because it’s easier that way. It’s less painful that way. 

In five years, I will fully be vested in my 401k--that is when the real dreams can start to happen!

But what else?  You have to market yourself now, you have to market yourself to be a product that other’s can define themselves by. I suppose that’s how it’s always been. 

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Salvador took us to a beautiful Mexican Bakery. They only took cash, speaking to their authenticity I suppose, but preventing me from coming home with anything more than these pictures.

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A sustainable, rewarding lifestyle is a much more personal, difficult to recognise change than these articles would suggest, and one this blog will look to explore over the coming weeks. Most importantly, the matter should not be a financial one or one that would frame freedom as a kind of holiday, because this confines it to the financially privileged or those who would rely on the charity of others. We have to start from the ground up, which means questioning how we view the world and what we want from it instead of leaping to an escape that reveals itself as another form of what we would leave behind.