Comforting Madness
I finally saw the film The Hours the other day, and also finished Paul Auster's Oracle Night. Both works concerned writing, and making choices; both were moving and rang loud echoes inside me. It occurs to me that I am a real writer, and I am, in fact, quite mad, but that's okay. In The Hours, Virginia Woolf chatters out loud to herself and walks around in a daze, trying to find the story of Mrs. Dalloway. She finds the beginning thread quite easily, and then wanders around looking for the next place to pick it up, and others call her mad. Perhaps she did hear voices, but what if they were only her characters speaking to her, trying to explain themselves?
I've been working on a scene for my novel, and I've been working it out in my head for weeks, talking to myself about it. Sometimes on the way to work, alone in the car, I'll actually talk to the characters, out loud. It has struck me on occasion that a passerby would think I was quite insane. I've also found myself in something of a daze at times, thinking about the story in the grocery store, or in the middle of the night. I wonder sometimes if Richard doesn't worry about my sanity. Auster's narrator describes a different experience, of being submerged in his story and feeling as if he's writing automatically, and that's come upon me as well. I've had instances of writing for several hours where I literally did not know time was passing, where I've looked up and seen that hours have gone by and I haven't moved from my spot. That my butt is quite sore from sitting in one place, and that my neck is killing me. That I have, in fact, practically abandoned my body, or at least the rest of it after my brain and hands have been engaged with the keyboard and the screen.
Of course, this is to compare myself with Virginia Woolf and Paul Auster, and that's pretty damned arrogant in any book, I suppose. Still . . .
It does bring something else to mind: I've been reading quite a lot of somber books lately, full of sorrow. Oracle does end well, after a fashion, but now I'm deep into another somber story, this one about lies and their consequences. I'll have to pick up Carrie Fisher or Peter David soon and have a laugh. It is spring, after all.
Back to being a Reader
I realized that I've been keeping a chronological narrative of the things I've read without commenting on them, so I've gone back and left my impressions of these books in the comments of my reading list. Perhaps I've refrained because there are no words that adequately explain the internal effect of a well-written book. Your perspective changes during the reading, and leaves a tiny internal scar, and afterwards, you are different. Your brain has been changed. A new internal pathway exists between your dendrites, thanks to your faithful author. I'm trying to keep reading constantly, as much to learn what makes a good book in an ultrarational way as anything. I feel sometimes that I'm absorbing something that can't be explained, much like an apprentice blacksmith must learn how a good weld feels as well as looks, before he can make one that holds.
I'm also trying to read as much poetry as I can, by checking out at least one book of poetry during every run to the library, but even if I do get into the MFA program at NCSU, I don't want to study poetry from an academic perspective. I prefer the mystery, even in my own writing. Sometimes it's better not to know, but just to feel. Reading a poem you don't completely understand is like listening to a song sung in a foreign language: you have to rely on other clues to gain an understanding, and much of it is emotional, in the realm beyond words. I love words, but they are not the only authority; the best poems can't be explained by expostion of rhyme, meter, structure, or style. They must be felt, with the heart.
It's a sad thing to admit, but . . .
I love our new car. It's an 04 Ford Escape, red with a V6. It is so much fun to drive we never want to get out of it. We were sweating the financing the night we went to check into it, but luckily we were able to finance through Ford and our car payment did not go higher than it was for the Corolla, a major concern of ours. We had to be willing to walk away to get that payment, but we are both deliriously happy about our choice. It's the first brand-new car (new car smell and all) either of us have ever had.
I'm still having neck and back pain and intense spells of dizziness. Tomorrow we are going to see a lawyer about what we can do about the medical injury settlement, and I have doctor's appointments Thursday and Friday. Hopefully somewhere in there, I can get in a few job interviews this week, but I'm most probably staying home again from work most of the week. I'm not sure how much longer I can get away with not going in, but the dizziness is still coming on strong and scary. My family doctor thinks it's "post-concussive stress," which I believe is another term for, "I don't know what's wrong with you, so I'm figuring out it's stress and depression from your trauma." I'm going to see my ENT Thursday to rule out anything going on with my balance or ears. If he says everything's okay, I might accept some kind of anti-depressant for the problem. But I'm getting tired of being told there's nothing seriously wrong, when I'm constantly light-headed. Better mad than sad, I guess.
p.s.: My Analytical Writing score came in the mail. I received a 6.0 out of 6.5. Not too shabby, I think. However, Dr. Kessel was quoted in the N&O this weekend as saying the competition is fierce for the first student slots in the program, saying he's got a stack of applications on his desk. I'm quaking, I'm quaking . . . hopefully I'll hear something soon before I pull all of my hair out.
Bad News in Threes?
I am considering Hell Week officially closed. Hell Week began with 1) Richard's car being declared dead; 2) my car being totaled in a three-car accident that left me with a concussion, lingering neck and back pain, and nightmares; and 3) my company announcing that it was closing the location I work in. More than likely the long process to get compensated for the accident in a manner that will not leave us destitute will knock back the timeline for our house; I still have a shitty job, but only for another eight months; and we are going to end up the proud owners of a light SUV, a class of car I used to decry for its arrogant, gas-guzzling ways but which I am now viewing as the only way to keep us alive in the current Urban Assault environment, i.e., by being at least as big as the asshole next to me.
In other news, NCSU has my GRE scores, but I still haven't had any word on acceptance. I have a job interview Wednesday morning for a position with drastically lower pay, and I may be able to secure an interview with a Chapel Hill retailer for an Assistant Buyer position (details to follow, if I make it). Easter has to dawn on better days . . . doesn't it? The least I can do is pray for a different number.
Crash Bam Boom
Richard and I were in our 2001 Toyota Corolla yesterday afternoon on our way to the movies when we were struck from behind by another vehicle. The impact pushed us into another car. There were no major injuries, but the impact broke both of our seats and threw me backwards - my seat fell completely backward, jerking me down. Richard has some neck pain; I've got an unpleasant bump on the back of my head, a very artistic black and blue bruise on my right arm above my elbow, and serious neck, head and lower back pain . The ER doc gave me Vicodin and a light duty slip for work; the car is now sitting at a wrecker's waiting for the appraisers. Both the front and back of my car are in pretty bad shape. The driver of the car that hit us was charged with failure to stop; she was from out of town and driving a rental car. Because our accident happened on the weekend, we're in a holding pattern at least until tomorrow when it can be determined whether or not she bought rental insurance or if we have to go after her primary car insurance. Apparently she escaped minor injuries but there was a scary period after the accident when we were told that she is pregnant; luckily there are no problems from that, as far as we know.
I was trussed up tightly on a back board and neck collar and had a very long emergency room wait for x-rays, during which time I had to urinate so badly I thought I was going to die. Strange things ran through my head, like Billy Joel singing "You May Be Right," and wondering if the movie we missed was good (we hope it is, we are both big Kevin Smith fans). Also, meditations on the many variations of white visible in an hospital environment, and whether or not Julius Hodge will try to leave NCSU for the NBA. I wondered if the woman who hit us was married, and what her family or husband or boyfriend might be thinking. I thought about how I knew she had to be feeling (I myself was responsible for a similar accident once, and the shame and pain of the guilt was very bad).
I'm also pissed beyond belief that my car, which I purchased primarily because of its excellent safety record, failed to protect me better than it did. Our airbags did not deploy; I suppose that makes sense since it was a rear-impact collision, but Richard could have gone through the front windshield, and our seats just completely failed. I feel tired, angry, full of sorrow, and weary beyond belief. The pain is bad -- the Vicodin dulls it pretty well, but early this morning, during breakfast when I hadn't taken the pill yet, it was very, very bad; I'm pretty brave with pain and don't like to whine, but it was making me cry.
The whole experience makes me feel defeated. My entire life seems like a series of solitary steps forward, followed by two giant steps backward. I wish someone had warned me in kindergarten that all of my life was going to be like that game we played at recess called "Mother May I." I might have chosen to check out early. I know I should be more enlightened about this than I am; I suppose I am failing a primary test of my humanity. It's just easier staying numb right now, than trying to be Zen. Maybe tomorrow, I can gain some spiritual perspective; I'll let you know.
