Mixing Memory with Desire (April is the Cruelest Month)

Dear friends, relatives and faithful readers,

photo (68)I have an announcement to make, after weeks of no blogs, long nights of work, and increasingly sunny spring days that smell blissfully like hyacinth: as of this past Wednesday, I am officially a writer. Not that I haven’t been all along, in some capacity, but I feel rather like Julie Powell when I say that one cannot feel completely and totally like a writer until one is published. And this week I got to see my work in print, published in the newspaper I have started to work for twice a week. And though it was a small story, and I got paid about enough to cook a good dinner and nothing more, there is a wonderful sense of progress, of accomplishment in this small byline, and a sense that all of those long nights have somehow paid off.

That being said, this week was dark in seemingly every other aspect, as news of bombings in Boston and grieving families captured the country’s consciousness. A friend of mine from college lives in Watertown, a sleepy suburban town, and found herself lying on the living room floor on Thursday night, as sounds of gunfire filled her street. These things happen, we all know, somewhere in the back of our minds. But they do not happen to us, to our cities and suburbs, to our families. And the closer this impossibility comes to an improbability, the more afraid we become.

It is impossible in situations like this, whether national or the smaller, quiet sadness of a family tragedy or a sick friend, to reconcile the hurt and fear we feel with the joys of just a few days ago, or the sunshine we know will return. It is difficult, especially this time of the year, to awaken from our stupor of habit, to climb from the cocoon of winter and greet the raw, living world once more, and hold sadness and hope together in our hands.

In “The Wasteland,” which I should be ashamed to admit I have not read in its entirety, T.S. Eliot claims that:

April is the cruellest month,breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

photo 2 (7)And that particular stanza has stuck with me for the past few weeks, as I have started a second job and a new internship, and find myself racing from newspaper office to restaurant to Nick and Sam’s apartment, collapsing in my bed with legs that cramp like a runner’s. Change, I have always thought, is a cruel and painful force; but these changes have brought experience, a sense of fulfillment, more fiscal sustainability. As we near summer and the year anniversary of our graduation (and, right before that, my five year high school reunion!), I have been looking back more and more, assessing what exactly it is that I have done with my life in this past year. And though this progress has been slow, at times excruciatingly so, it has been filled with laughter and love, words and the best friends on Earth. So here I am, stuck, like Eliot, between memory and desire. Here we are waiting for spring to stir our dull roots with spring rain.

Marcel is struggling to make his own strides into societal growth, with forays into the aristocracy of the Guermantes salon and trips to the opera, and this process (like everything in Proust!) is slow as well. He is beginning to understand his love for Albertine, more adult and rooted in reality than his affection for Gilberte, and as we watch him ascend into societal heights and grow into his own artistry, it is impossible not to see some progress in this unending narrative.

Change may still shake me, and the breeze that comes through my open window contain a bit of a winter bite. But, going back once again to Eliot, this time to “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” there is time yet.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

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I’m feeling 22 (I don’t know about you)

I would start out this post by apologizing for the delay in Prousting, but with a slew of job applications, visiting friends, and general late-winter apathy, I have been neglecting my blog duties and feel I should not be ashamed of putting life first. I have to thank Nora for her last post, for having the guts to write honestly and with the raw truth that I am sometimes afraid to articulate in writing. Sometimes there is so much chaos and uncertainty and disappointment in life that I do not have the heart to put it into art as well; sometimes there are those days that go by in a haze of clouds and tea and endless cover letters, and it is such a relief to laugh with friends, drink a glass of wine, and write about the reasons to go on. But great writing, I suppose, is not afraid to face the darkness. Great writing manages to bring in the good with the bad, to show beauty along with sorrow, to ride the emotional roller coaster of life (or even a single day), to speak those things we keep to ourselves.

photo 1 (2)Last Friday, Nora and I took a field trip to the Morgan Library in Midtown, our favorite museum, where we saw the installation “Marcel Proust and Swann’s Way: 100th Anniversary” on the day it opened. The small but full room contains case upon case of Proust’s handwritten letters and manuscript drafts, on loan from the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. A celebration of the 100th anniversary of Swann’s Way, it seemed the perfect way to celebrate this project, and an excuse to meet up. We walked among the papers of a man who seems to have become a character in our own lives, reading the inserts and substitutions, the letters he wrote to friends, trying to describe his endeavor. The famous first line of the novel, “For a long time I used to go to bed early,” had been inserted in place of a long, scratched-out paragraph. Entire scene progressions and volume names had changed; Proust’s narrative of a man grieving for his lost mother (something the author himself went through at the time) became something far more lyrical, far more complex.

We walked out of the museum and down Madison Avenue, all the way from 35th to 4th street, where we walked across Washington Square Park, got $3 felafel, and ate it on the steps of a Village brownstone. We talked about our lives, work, change. Nothing right now is certain: soon we will (hopefully, in my case!) have new jobs, Nora a new apartment, Nick and Sam, my very best friends, are moving to the other side of Manhattan, and I will miss their close proximity terribly. Soon it will be spring, and the sun will come back. I am learning, painfully but steadily, that change is not always a bad thing. I hate growing up, I told her. Just when you think you’re done, it’s like you have so much further to go. She walked me down to Houston, and we hugged goodbye.

photo 2 (1)Here’s the thing about this period in your life, which everyone seems to know but no one is wiling to say: sometimes it really sucks. Sometimes it is the greatest time of your life, full of possibility and independence, and random sing-along nineties dance parties, and walks across the Brooklyn Bridge. And sometimes it feels almost impossible, like nothing is certain and the future is still so very far away. So here, finally, is my attempt at raw truth. There are days when I find myself clutching at straws, filling out application after application in a seemingly endless, dogged pursuit of that one thing I have wanted since the age of twelve: life as a writer. Some days I get up at 8:30, make tea, and write eight cover letters by sunset; others I languish in bed, watching Downton Abbey and chatting with friends until ten.

Last Wednesday, emotionally exhausted, physically spent, and with a headache that came from not enough sleep and too much chardonnay the night before, I lay staring at my ceiling, teary-eyed, wondering how on earth I am going to manage to get my life to the place where I want it to be. In a sudden, childish impulse, I crawled under my covers and curled up, staring at the down of my comforter, yellow with morning light. I wish I could just stay here, I thought, in a moment of uncharacteristic angst. I wish I could just stay here and never have to get a job, not have to socialize or go on dates or grow up. I allowed myself to wallow for several long minutes. Then I flung off my covers, turned on Taylor Swift’s “22.”

We’re happy free confused and lonely at the same time
It’s miserable and magical oh yeah

As Taylor sang, I danced around my room, face still tearstained as I made my bed and fluffed my pillows, crying and laughing until I collapsed spread-eagled onto my bed, smiling in spite of myself. There is nothing that so perfectly embodies this feeling of inherent contradictions like a red-headed country singer, and all of the sudden I felt better again.

I don’t know about you but I’m feeling 22
Everything will be alright if you keep me next to you
You don’t know about me but I bet you want to
Everything will be alright if we just keep dancing like we’re 22

I am twenty-three now, but I am sure this song will ring true for a while yet. For once, I’m not going to go for some witty summation, some ending that is both poignant and funny. Being this age is hard and wonderful and takes constant adaptation and a wry sense of humor. I do not know what to tell you, my beloved readers, do not know how to make this uncertainty better except to grow with it.

And I do not know how to live, except to laugh with the people I love, to get up early, and to just keep dancing.


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