Uncanny

It is the day of my thesis meeting. My committee of three professors, having read my thesis, will offer suggestions and provide feedback for about an hour. If you know anything about long writing projects, then you’re acquainted with the rush of relief that comes when the final draft is submitted—the seeming swelling of everything good; the easiness of breath due to  your newly expanded air. It is a feeling that lingers for some time. Well, I turned in my thesis over a week ago, so my committee would have time to read it before today’s meeting. And that feeling did come, and it lasted for two or three days, in slowly ebbing increments. It makes me wish I always had a long paper due (not really).

Yet a different, but just as exhilarative, feeling found me this morning. The last song to play in my car, right before parking and entering work (alas, it’s still a work day), was a song that I reference in my thesis: Lou Reed’s “Make Up.” Out of the hundreds of songs in my iPod, which was set to shuffle, it chose that one! It’s as if the universe patted my shoulder, letting me know that my effort was in harmony with all of existence—like the pieces were coming together, if only for a moment, and allowing a glance at some bigger picture, whose pattern would clarify in the end. My anxiety evaporated into the cool November morning, and I listened to the whole song.

25 November 2017 (British lady in a Starbucks)

 

“She was a complicated lady.” It was spoken with a British accent. I looked up from my work, and the tall woman with long black hair and bangs was smiling at my Virginia Woolf book of essays. I’d seen the woman in Starbucks before but had no idea she was British. Why would I ever suspect that? White people look the same from country to country, except for maybe those from Scandinavia.

Her statement about Virginia Woolf had the ring of authority, or maybe that’s just how I heard it, given her accent. But being an American makes me no authority on Henry James, so why should I assume such a thing of this woman. In fact, I was shocked to learn, from the only other British person I know in real life (i.e., not on social media) that English literary history is hardly emphasized in Britain’s schools anymore. So here’s this thing known as English literature, which I’ve idolized for years, only to find out it’s nearly neglected in its homeland. What the what?! Now I’m wondering whether my new British Starbucks friend has even read Virginia Woolf, or if she simply repeats the line passed down in idle conversation. Perhaps, for her, the name Virginia Woolf triggers the phrase “complicated lady” the same way that Meryl Streep’s name invokes “good actress” from people who never watch her movies—like the goal is simply to talk, whether or not the conversation has any substance.

Maybe I’m wrong. It could be that my new British buddy has a working knowledge of Woolf’s novels, after all—maybe even an essay or two. I will probably never know, because our interactions never transcend the smallest of small talk. Usually I’m so eager to get back into my work that I leave little room for anything more than a hello. And that is okay.

 

24 November 2017 (about Thanksgiving night)

In one corner of the large, rectangular room, cousins in their twenties reconnect, while in another, the parents of those same young adults slip into the easy familiarity–brothers, sisters, and in-laws, all privy to the old jokes and family stories; thoughts of those who’ve gone on but whose presence remains, bittersweetly.

Even if I was a blood relation, however, I’m not sure the easy familiarity would come, or rather, when it does come, it never stays for long. I’m rarely at ease anywhere outside my house or the few coffee places I haunt. Over the course of my thirties, solitude became the preferred milieu, despite a fairly sociable  teenage and young adult life. I suppose it was the growth of the writer inside. You can roll your eyes at that if you want–it’s fine. I’d rather you not let me see you do it, though, for civility’s sake. Yet this is something that any artist understands: the necessary loneliness. You reach a point where you either give up the call or accept that if you’re going to accomplish anything of value, artistically speaking, then you’re going to be trudging that path alone.

It’s Thanksgiving night, and I’ve found a comfortable chair with a full view of the room.  A few settle nearby–wife, brother-in-laws, father-in-law–those who are naturally close. But across the way is an energetic demographic with whom I won’t share a word the whole night. Some of them, I won’t even make eye contact with. I wonder if they see me as the misanthrope in the corner, which is kind of amusing, but also not exactly how I want to come across. Nevertheless, we can’t control what others think, right? Everyone is friendly; everyone is thoughtful and warm–paragons of virtue, in fact. And I am content to be a spectator, thinking about my various projects, thankful for those I love and for those who love me. I am often alone, but I am never lonely.