Your Clothes

When I read this I think of my mother & her sisters. The last two lines strike hardest:

Your Clothes

by Judith Kroll

Of course they are empty shells, without hope of animation.
Of course they are artifacts.

Even if my sister and I should wear some,
or if we give others away,

they will always be your clothes without you,
as we will always be your daughters without you.

"I want to scream"

Tragic & beautiful & frightening & strange. Each time I read this I find a new fragment that resounds in me:

To

by Franz Wright

Before you were I loved you
and when you were born
and when you took your first step
Although I did not know
good luck I want to say

lone penguin keep sturdily waddling
in the direction of those frozen mountains sister
of desolate sanctity
I want to scream
Although I did not know you

I loved you later on
as just a weedy thing
a little skeleton I loved
Both long pre-you a child myself
and as a man in retrospect

I loved and I was there
while they were raping you
I loved although
like God
that’s all that I could do—

Annual Essay

Every spring term, we have to turn in an essay that demonstrates our ability to think and write about a question of our choice, to develop and sustain an argument. For sophomores, the essay is an especially important factor in deciding whether we're allowed to continue as students at St. John's, which makes me a bit nervous. I love the topic I've chosen, but I know my essay has to demonstrate that my quietness in class doesn't mean I'm slow or unaware, that I really do spend time thinking deeply about the works we study.

Last year I wrote on Thucydides' History. My essay defended the Athenian exile Alcibiades, who claimed to be a patriot, even as he betrayed his own city to the Spartans. I did surprisingly well--in my oral with my seminar tutors, we barely mentioned the paper because they had few criticisms, & my tutors nominated me from my class for the freshman essay prize.

With that past experience in mind, I should be confident. I wrote on a topic I was surprisingly fascinated by last year, even though I don't care much for politics or history. And this year, I'm writing on the Bible. But I know both of my seminar tutors are disappointed with how little I speak, so this paper may have to be even better than my freshman essay.

I also have a lot more in-depth reading to do. I'm looking at what Paul means when he says "we preach Christ crucified" (1 Corinthians), & how that relates to the human perception of the divine. What do the Apostles and followers of Christ see that the Pharisees do not? The Pharisees see a man, & Christ does appear as a mortal man who suffers a mortal death. And what does that mortal appearance mean in contrast with the Old Testament, where Adam & Eve are ashamed by their nakedness before God, where Jacob sees the face of God when wrestling with a stranger, Joseph dreams, & Moses is given the law by a burning bush? Is the human desire for nearness to God repulsed by the nearness of God to man?

The textual references, especially in relation to Christ & man, are most important. The idea of "the word become flesh"--what does it mean? And how does it shape the New Testament, the new law of liberation Is it integral to the idea of perfect love, the parables of the Kingdom of Heaven, the salvation of man?

I guess, in essence, the heart of the question is about the human perception of Christ, & how that influences the perception of God, of the Bible. & why does the human body of Christ necessitate
crucifixion? If we see Christ as a man, does that limit our understanding of God as omniscient, omnipotent, infinite? Is that why the Pharisees cannot abide the human Christ?

I have too many questions. But too many are better than too few; this paper has to be about 15-20 pages. I've never written anything that long before--my problem with writing essays is that I tend to be too succinct, to concise. I have having to write filler or fluff, or having to use block quotes, just to make something longer. Last year I lucked out--when I finished writing I happened to have 10+ pages (just enough), & I'm hoping for something similar this year. Fingers crossed.

Blizzard

Yestereday & the day before were longer & more listless than most days. The snow started Friday morning, the first day of long weekend. I woke up at a quarter to seven to work out, then showered & ran to the pharmacy before brunch to get some last-minute things before the snow got worse. A couple of friends were going to the mall, so I tagged along. I kept forgetting it was Friday, & wondered why the mall was emptier than usual. We wandered around, stopping in a few stores, got kicked out of Victoria's Secret for chatting instead of shopping. I got a cute tote bag from H&M--organic cotton, with an illustration of a girl & a rabbit--and a birthday present for Jack.

Then we stopped by Trader Joes, where people were doing last minute shopping before the storm. The produce section was raided, and they were running out of grapefruit juice & popcorn & bread. Crisis mode.

I got back to my room, went to dinner, then hung out with Jack until it was time for a friend's surprise birthday party. After an hour or so we trudged back to campus. The snow was up to my knees, & I couldn't see with the wind blowing snowflakes into my eyes. But the sight of the trees, bowed down with snow & glistening in the light of the streetlamps, was unforgettably beautiful.

Saturday was similar. I woke up & it was still snowing. After brunch I went to the communal kitchens to make ratatouille, which was warm & hearty. Then dinner, then hanging out, & another party. The seniors turned in their thesis papers last night, so the campus was filled with revelers and celebration. But I was tired from two long days, ready for bed by midnight. & today I'm in my room resting, trying to do some school work, listening to music. It's calming, peaceful, relaxing in bed & knowing that wide, white world waits outside, glistening in sunlight.

Restlessness

I arrived in Annapolis tonight after a flight, a metro ride, an hour at the train station, another metro ride, & a cab drive. Being in my dorm room again is an unexpected shock; though all of my things are exactly where I left them, the room feels unfamiliar to me.

Language tomorrow. We're done studying Ancient Greek, & this semester we'll read English poetry, Shakespeare plays. We're starting with something by Nietzsche, "On Truth and Lying in an Extra-Moral Sense."

Then music, then seminar. We're doing the Divine Comedy now, & discussing the first half of Inferno. It seems so different from when I first read it; those tortured souls don't terrify me as much. I feel less pity for them, less awe of Hell. But I finished Purgatorio today, & it was tender, poignant, redeeming.

I need to start working on my annual essay. I think I'm going to write about the Bible, about the necessity of the crucifixion, the human abhorrence of the divine incarnate despite desire to grow nearer to God.

Break was peaceful, but too still. I had so many things I wanted to say, & only silence emerged. I need to speak more this year, to keep fewer things secret & unspoken. & all I feel now is acute longing, nameless nostalgia for a more effortless way of being, restlessness.

Beautiful But Dumb

"It was not my anger or my frustration that got in the way of my poetry but the fact that I viewed each anger and each frustration as unique—something to be converted into poetry as one would exchange foreign money. I learned this from the English Department (and from the English Department of the spirit—that great quagmire that lurks at the bottom of all of us) and it ruined ten years of my poetry. Look at those other poems. Admire them if you like. They are beautiful but dumb.

Poems should echo and re-echo against each other. They should create resonances. They cannot live alone any more than we can.

So don’t send the box of old poetry to Don Allen. Burn it or rather open it with Don and cry over the possible books that were buried in it—the Songs Against Apollo, the Gallery of Gorgeous Gods, the Drinking Songs—all incomplete, all abortive—all incomplete, all abortive because I thought, like all abortionists, that what is not perfect had no real right to live.

Things fit together. We knew that—it is the principle of magic. Two inconsequential things can combine together to become a consequence. This is true of poems too. A poem is never to be judged by itself alone. A poem is never by itself alone.

This is the most important letter that you have ever received.

Love,

Jack"
-from a letter by Jack Spicer

Scavenger Hunt

I spent last night running around the rain-wet streets of downtown, in cemeteries and parking lots and shops on main street, all for a scavenger hunt that I didn't even know about until a few hours beforehand. My two teammates and I knocked on strangers' doors to carol and trick-or-treat, stole a pumpkin, broke into and scoured friends' rooms for objects we didn't already have, asked strangers to help us, and got sweaty and gross and exhausted.
And at the end of the night, when we laid out our loot and tallied up our points, we won. Eighty dollars for three people, and a celebratory grape juice drink afterward. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night.
Tonight, by contrast, is rather boring. I'm alone in my dark room, coming up with an oral topic and translating Greek and wishing I had more school work to keep me busy, and more motivation to socialize. And I have a stolen pumpkin on my bookshelf and I've eaten too much food & I am trying not to think too much about my own life, about how strange and silly it is. So instead I will translate one of Rilke's poems and try to think about beautiful things instead.