Archive for » 2006 «
I’ve been listening to Brian Greene’s “The Fabric of the Cosmos”. I was struck so much by something in it that I stopped listening and have been thinking about it for the past couple of days.
Inspired by Richard Feynman’s remarkable observations on experiencing the world as a physicist, “the search for the deepest understanding of the cosmos became [Greene's] life blood.”
But reality turned out to be somewhat different.
“Physicists generally do not spend their working days contemplating flowers in a state of cosmic awe and reverie. Instead, we devote much of our time to grappling with complex mathematical equations scrawled across well scored chalkboards. Progress can be slow. Promising ideas, more often than not, lead nowhere. That’s the nature of scientific research.”
It struck me on a number of levels.
Growing up, we have so many dreams. We dream of what being an independent adult will be like, what being married will be like, what having children will be like. We dream of our careers. The life before us seems to be magical.
So we struggle through our growing up, learning the sometimes harsh lessons life has to teach us. We push through school, working hard and sacrificing much. There is no one single point where we can say, “I’m an adult now.” It is different for everyone. But at some time, we look back on our life and realize that the point has passed and we are grown up. Then we realize that there is no magic here.
Driving a car is a learned skill that is often very stressful. Just because we don’t have to ask to have the candy bar doesn’t mean we can have it. The light turns on because we pay an electric bill. We no longer have to go to school, now we have to pay for school and go to work. The dream job we imagined has people in it that don’t like us very much, tasks that are boring, problems that are difficult to grapple with, and is much harder than school ever was. Being a parent isn’t just about being a dictator, it is spilling your soul into other individuals so that their pain is your own and then you put them into the world where you know they’ll get hurt.
And yet we love.
The speed of the car. The sweet taste of success. The moments of triumph. The tender touch of your beloved. The joy of the child who shows you the world anew.
Life is much harder than we ever dreamed it would be, but it is also much better. Maybe there is magic, but it is not in the trappings of what it is to be an adult. The magic is in the good we can accomplish as an adult.
“You aren’t really liking this book, are you?” asked my husband. You see, I hadn’t quite yet finished it. What was interesting was that it laid around with just a little over a hundred pages to go for well over a week. That is the climactic end that is supposed to be the part where you can’t get to sleep until you finally finish the book.
“The Stand” just didn’t do it for me. Sorry. I tried. Because I believe that authors who have such a wide audience must be good.
And I LIKE Stephen King, the guy who writes. I like the writing, even. I really wanted to appreciate his works.
But his character development fell flat for me.
Spoiler Alert
In the end, the only strong female character (other than the old wise archtype Mother Abigail) ends up staying behind because she is pregnant. In the end, we find out that all along, for all of her feminist ideals, her only role was to be an incubator to the first kid to survive. The other women? The only chaste woman is that way only because she has been magically reserved for the demon guy to be a virgin sacrifice incubator. Another stay behind incubator girl who loves a main character who gets killed in the end. Lesbian/bi girl who uses her sexuality to spy on the bad guys.
Yes, the world needed to be repopulated. But the women just made food and babies while the men did the real work.
The magic wasn’t very well developed either.
So, I’m sorry Mr. King. I guess I’m just not in your natural audience.
This was an exercise from Ursula K. LeGuinn’s “Steering the Craft”. It’s called Being Gorgeous. The idea is to play around with sound, but don’t use rhyme or meter.
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Slippery synthetic syncopated symbol swims sideways. So sophisticated. Such sophistry. Serendipity sings silently in this surreal sojourn.Â
Life? Sliced slyly, ever so carefully. Question caution. Don’t caution questions.  Curiosity created colonies of words in books.Â
Big balloons bumble bluely by.Â
Oh boy, I like soy. Roy drank soy, or so he said. The boy won’t slurp it now.
That is what Terry Brooks says I am.
Rumor has it though, that Joshua Bilmes, the proprietor for JABberwocky, disagrees.
Because I am not a writer yet. He says I’m only a wannabe writer because I haven’t finished a book yet. I didn’t get to make the tepid comeback that I had finished several short stories because it was someone else he told this to, about people in general who are trying to be writers crabby, self absorbed schizophrenics.
Still, I like that. I like it that I’m just an apprentice writer, that I have a journey before me.
- Amka leans back in the chair and sighs happily -
I love writer’s conferences.
So, all writers are weird. Interesting that, in a correspondance with a friend, this is pretty much exactly what I said. I told her I was going to “partake of the weird community of writers.” It was pretty much the message of Terry Brooks, the keynote speaker for the League of Utah Writer’s Roundup. Not only that, he informed us that all the writers in our writer’s group think we are weird too, because we are a different kind of weird than they are.
It made me think about the problem of being weird. Writers do so often live on the fringes of humanity. We all accept our eccentricity as part of ourselves because if we don’t, we’ll shrink into our own narcissistic rejection. It is the very thing that makes us good at writing that pushes us just a little outside the norm.
Can we really write about what it is to be normal, to be human, if we ourselves are someone removed from it?
I think some go beyond acceptance writing and embrace this isolationism as a virtue. They dwell upon the Art. They write prose and poetry that is unapproachable by the human reader. Only the educated colleague is worthy to understand the message.
Excuse me while I go retch.
Maybe this is why I love the field of fantasy and science fiction so much. We are writing for people. Other genres do it too: mystery, romance, thrillers, etc. Non-fiction. Just like everyone can appreciate a beautiful rose, everyone can appreciate a good story.
Those of us who write for people are truly serving the Art, because it isn’t only for the initiated acolytes. Art should inspire hope, personal revelation, heroic action, secret enjoyment, gratitude, etc.
But most of all, Art should inspire us to love our fellow human being.
But maybe I’m just weird to think that.
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“Always have a good time and enjoy life to the fullest.” These were the words she wrote into a high school yearbook of a friend, and these are the words she lived by with grace and beauty.
Her life began on June 25, 1972. She must have been the best birthday gift her father, Robert Ewart, could have ever gotten, for they shared the date. It was an event they would celebrate together, famously now with two cakes. Hers was the chocolate cake, and her father had orange cake. What a woman her mother, Catherine, must have been.
Meredith grew up in Otterburn Park, a forested town nestled under the protection of a mountain on the south bank of Richelieu River, east of Montreal. It is easy to imagine the kind of idyllic childhood she had there. The daughter of a teacher, her life would have been filled with books and a love of learning. Beauty surrounded her, and she reflected it.
She seems to have made friends easily. She is remembered fondly as someone with an ‘infectious personality’, a genuine smile that opened up possibilities wherever she went. Though quickly made, such friendships were not so quickly lost. Her best friend, Kim Manion, moved away in the seventh grade. In an age where the internet did not soften the long distances between loved ones, Meredith kept up her connection with Kim through letters for more years than they’d known each other in person.
Meredith was even known people she never met, for Robert would “often talk about her with a glitter in [his] eyes” to his students.
When she graduated from high school, there was no rush to leave this place she’d grown up in. She attended Champlain College, and then graduated from Concordia University in 1995 with a Bachelors of Arts degree.
It was shortly after this that she met the love of her life, Peter Feidelberg, at work. They would have discovered things they had in common. They had both grown up near Montreal and both had gotten their degrees from Concordia. Peter was adventurous and outgoing, very much like Meredith.
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In the black and white photo of them, we see that Meredith’s smile is quieter than Peter’s huge grin. But there is a sparkle to it as she bends over him. It looks almost as if, should they be able to leap out of this pose we’ll forever see them in, they would begin to tickle or tease each other. Or perhaps they already had shared a joke.
Now, from the security of her family she moved into the security of Peter’s love. Together they went to New York in 1997. For a short time she worked for the United Nations, but she soon took a position with Aon Corporation, the same company that Peter worked for.
In March of 2000, she and Peter got married, and shortly after that they bought a house together in Hoboken, New Jersey. For that year, they lived together in anticipation of a lifetime of happiness.
Of them, her father said, “They really loved each other. I never heard them fight, never heard them bicker.” Like it is for all parents, it must have been hard to let her go, but reassuring that their daughter had found such a ”prince of a fellow” to spend the rest of her life with. It was a good life they were beginning. They were remembered not only individually for their kindness, but together. One neighbor describes them postponing an outing they had planned in order to help her family move, and then goes on:
” I offered them some of the baby things that I had, a crib and the like and Meredith told me that they weren’t ready for that — they just wanted to enjoy each other. They were beautiful people and I remember them often, just as they were then — so happy and so in love.”
Now, with their life firmly in grip, they turned back to family and friends to celebrate. Many of their loved ones hadn’t been able to be at the original wedding, so Meredith and Peter renewed their vows a year later in a country inn near Meredith’s hometown. They had a good time, a beautiful sunny day filled with dancing and laughing, filled with “enjoying life to the fullest.” ‘I love you, Mer,’ her father said to her at the end of the day. ‘I love you, Dad.’ She replied.
It was August 11th, 2001, the capstone of what Meredith and Peter thought was the beginning of their life together.
They worked on the 104th floor of WTC 2, the south tower. The last we know of Meredith on September 11, she and Peter took the stairwell.
With Meredith and her husband, we discover the succulent bloom of young love’s triumph at the threshold of the future. Though it is now so unfairly stilled, we are left behind in awe of the whispered possibilities, of love never parted. For them, we find the will to celebrate love and life and all things good.
Author’s Note: It has been a joy to get to know Meredith. I can only hope that I have gotten things correctly. I was not sure how to contact the family, but there was a surprising amount of information in the signing of guestbook tributes. If there are any corrections to be made, please email me at ami (at) geekatplay (dot) com. I won’t be posting here for at least a week to keep this on top.
A wonderful tribute was written for Peter Feidelberg at Patrick O’Hannigan’s blog, The Paragraph Farmer. Tributes for the other victims of the September 11th terrorist attacks can be found at 2,996 or here.
I just finished a great biography on William Shakespeare by Stephen Greenblatt called “Will in the World: How Shakespeare became Shakespeare”. The history and his place in it was certainly fascinating. It is the kind of stuff I love. We all have stories that are part of a bigger whole, the story of a civilization. I’m finding as I grow older that I crave those real stories.
But what impacted me the most about this biography was something that Greenblatt never actually said, though it seemed apparent to me.
Shakespeare deeply loved what it was to be human, with all its faults and triumphs. This is the reason his plays are accessible to a modern audience. This is the thing that made him a great author, perhaps the greatest.
At the same time, I’ve been reading Stephen King’s “The Stand”. Frankly, it is not my favorite book. I am not among King’s natural audience. But I can see why he is so popular. You see, Stephen King also clearly loves what it is to be human, foibles and all.
For any writer to make stories that shine the lamp into the dark corners of humanity, they must have the sort of compassionate understanding that springs from a deep affection and wonder for the human soul.
I burned my arm today.
It got red and inflammed around the burn, but the edges of the area of inflammation was rough and there were even a few uninflammed patches within it. That is how it always is. It is so interesting why. Why does one bit get red and swell, and right next to it, it doesn’t? What would it say about our anatomy if, every time we suffered some damage, the redness and inflammation were always a certain exact radius away from the site of damage, so that the borders were very distinct.
The body is an amazing, chaotic machine.
I’ve put her in my list of links, but I’d like to more formally introduce my mom.
http://flourandyeast.blogspot.com/
She’s a writer. I think it surprised her when I grew up and decided I wanted to be a writer. When I was a teenager, I was probably as quiet and uncool as she was, but my time was spent in labs and my mentors were science teachers instead of literature. I wasn’t lucky enough to have a Mr. Howell for English, but I had Ms. Gentry for biology, and Mr. Smith (we called him Smitty) and Professor Ragsdale for a summer chemistry class held at the University of Utah.
But my mom’s influence, both genetic and environmental, could not let go of me. I read all the time, and somewhere there was always a piece of me that yearned to write stories such as those I read.
As I put rollers in my hair this morning, I laughed to myself, remembering visions of the stereotyped housewife doing her housework in curlers. It is a vision from the 50s and 60s that came to my mind. It takes longer this way, air drying it, but one can be cleaning house and taking care of little ones while the hair gets done. If one needed it done faster, they could go get their hair set at the salon. Another clichéd scene entered my mind, of a row of women sitting under dryers, beauty magazines being looked at distractedly, but not half-heartedly as they gossiped together.
Then I remembered Grandma. She wore rollers in her hair, too, but I can’t really see her gossiping with the ladies while her hair was being set in a salon. She had her own hair dryer that she sat under when her hair needed to be done quickly.
Everything about that item that used to fascinate me as a child, so practical and glamorous at the same time, seems to show us some of what Grandma is.
She always takes a care for her looks, but she was never vain. Grandma never had gray hair. I remember brown hair, and then she had white hair. I wonder if she wasn’t like me: the grey hairs didn’t bother her as a sign of age, but that salt and pepper just looked kind of dull. It didn’t match the vitality of her at all. So she colored it until the day when her hair simply didn’t match the beautiful grace of her wrinkles.
She’s independent not only in action, but in mind. She can sustain herself with great strength of will and serenity. Even, I think, now that she physically can’t. I watched her today, sitting with a fussy great-grandbaby on her lap for a four generation picture. She didn’t just bear it, but she seemed happy. Her part now only appears small in action, but it is the greatest now. She is our connection to the past, to each other, and to that realm she now stands at the boundary of.
And I could never see her gossiping with the other ladies. Rather than exchanging small and cruel words that put others in their place, she always had good words scattered around her. They could be found in the books she read, covering her fridge, and I’m sure, in the journals she has written. But especially, they could be found in her actions. She has spent her entire life serving others in some way or another, lifting them up even when she herself struggled.
In my mind’s eye, I can see grandma sitting in a row next to several other women, chatting happily. But it is while tying a quilt for Primary Children’s Hospital, or some other kind of service to others. Her eyes are clear, her hair is neat, and her words and actions are uplifting.
Dear Grandma, you will always be an example to me as the kind of woman I strive to be. Thank you.
