Not Vegetarian

As a needed literary palette-cleanser I picked up a Murakami novel. I'm beginning to outgrow certain books... or expecting more than I get.  Murakami is always admirable for trying... one often reads for the mystery factor... and he is literate and understands music, art... it's reassuring and good.  This time it was Kafka on the Shore... my expectations were different (the title, lol) but it was okay.

For months I've been waitlisted at NYPL for a couple of Han Kangs... The Vegetarian came last week and I devoured it in an evening. Maybe it was the still-lingering taste of Murakami, but I was underwhelmed. I felt like I'd been there, I'd known these people-- all of them, with their issues and a sort of projected character-narcissism I can't help attributing to the writer?  I am sinning here, I know... but with my limited years of life, diminishing by the moment, I feel annoyed when I am disappointed.  Murakami.. how can one compare (?); but his ambition never fails to impress even when he is less successful. And his characterizations-- well, they are so much less pretentious.  If I had bought this book, I would have felt duped. Apologies to the Nobelist.

A story in the Times today about an eccentric tough professor--  a kind of hoarder... who upon her death left sizable sums of money to selected students.  It felt meaningful, and in the context of recent relentless meditations on death, wills, afterlife... it was a kind of solution. Obviously, being memorialized with a New York Times post-mortem story had its own merit.

The river of death continues to flow past me... the mounting losses among friends, and the utter failure to honor these people who touch us so profoundly... and become a small paragraph-- a post, a broken heart meme... what can one do, without becoming a professional mourner?  Aside from the Pope and former presidents, funeral rituals have become less stringent since Covid.  One adjusted to the idea that a gathering or service would perpetrate more death, and postponed.  Reading history-- whole civilizations were characterized by the way they handled burial and afterlife philosophy.  What one leaves behind has ever-increasing longevity as opposed to the meagre years we are given here.  Not even an eye-blink in the monstrosity of time.

I was forced into a major discussion this week with a teenager who had decided he'd had enough education, and college would be meaningless.  Go ahead, I said... I mean, there are pictures of everything... does one really need to read the captions?  It's useful... and the richness of everyday existence is really measured by the resonance of experience-- how a song reminds us of something.. a piece of melody-- the way some assortment of trees calls up a Monet image or vice versa.  Art-- something not always understood... the process, the pieces.  How will you know about what came before? How will you know what there is to know? Dead writers are not often reviewed in daily media... but they are the foundation.  They are my intellectual family... my teachers. 

Once the actual experience of death is comprehended-- terrifying and unknowable-- it is the eternal obscurity that is depressing.  What we have been, what we have done-- it's just so temporary and unimportant in a culture which deifies the moment-- instant fame. No longer 15 minutes-- it's more like 15 seconds. One wonders that these monstrous people like Sean Diddy Combs are proving evil more memorable than goodness.  They receive enormous media time... and what is goodness?  Pope Francis became a kingpin... we are fascinated, but we go on sinning and wasting time and failing to rescue opportunities.

We cannot save people... The Vegetarian author knows that. I had a longtime best friend who suffered various mental illnesses and I acknowledge I grew tired of being sympathetic. It was exhausting watching her refuse food and company when she was one of the most artistically gifted people I'd ever known.  Part of it-- I was furious at losing my BFF who was better than I was at drawing and maybe singing.  And I adored her. But the option of choosing a kind of death in life seems so selfishly anti-humanitarian.  Not to mention requiring an enormous amount of medical and psychiatric attention. 

Personally I have befriended darkness and process this as a kind of shadow without which there is no light. I have disallowed mental illness but subscribe to psychological variety in the extreme.  I want to see art which explores these channels without shouting about it. Without promotion there is no exposure, I suppose. It is the paradox of this culture which prioritizes marketing above product... which monetizes just about everything... and defines success in amounts. Our heroes are in a way half baked... some of them suffer from the guilty pleasure of fame but many just continue the glam-squad lifestyle and continuous partying.  Maybe it is the new 'B-side' of creativity-- alternating phases of production and then celebration.

I keep returning to the classics-- I am obsessive and worried about my lapses... my failures to discover important things that are no longer popular or even in libraries.  The printed word-- it's so important. Currently I am reading Colm Tóibín's The Magician.. another digression before I start my next difficult 1200 page opus.  It tells the story of Thomas Mann... really just leads one to the writer himself... I wonder if he is read as widely as the Tóibín novel was in this decade.  

Daily obituaries remind... one must memorialize oneself I suppose-- this is the appeal of instagram?  That one's 'legacy' is copious and therefore significant?  And if one is undiscovered, is this worse than death?  There's a universe out there... an infinite, incomprehensible chronology... ever-expanding like the ratio of death to life. Until we have done ourselves in... all of us.  All of the art-- from cave paintings to Stonehenge to the $4 billion-dollars-worth of paintings sold at auction last week.  All of the books... the beautiful buildings-- the Sistine Chapel.  We can all sense goodness... it doesn't necessarily make us famous, but while we are living-- this tiny gift of time-- we can make something, we can leave a mark.  And we can 'not-fail' the ones who came before us, who sit patiently on library shelves, waiting... collecting dust, tottering on being remaindered in the next generation... Eek. Amen. 

Will (Not) Tell On You

One of the first tasks required of all entering Princeton freshman is the signing of the Honor Code. In my day, it stated something like 'I will not cheat (or a euphemism)' on exams'.  The second part-- the corollary-- was, simply stated, 'and I will report anyone who does'. Being the philosophical and slightly rebellious student that I was, I questioned the necessity of the corollary, assuming everyone adhered to the 'not cheating' oath.  Otherwise, what good is a signature? 

So I had to have a conversation with the Dean of Academic Affairs... it wasn't like me to ruffle the waters, but maybe like me to think about what I signed up for.  I took things seriously. It was hard to believe no one had had issues with this before; presumably they were so glad to be embarking on their Ivy League privileged journey that they just agreed.  In the end, I crossed out the second part and swore to the first.  I had never and have never cheated academically.  I have always tried to be original and not to lie; it's an unspoken covenant with some higher power, or a terrific sense of guilt instilled by my strict father.

Cheating, as it's commonly known in our culture, seems to refer primarily to relationship violations. There's a reality TV show dedicated to this, and in fact, the highest-rated episodes of most reality shows deal with this subject.  People are shamed, smeared, maligned, interviewed... everyone seems to know the score.  But this is greatly exaggerated.  Unfortunately, infidelity is more common than its opposite.  I noticed it as a child--- before I was fully aware of the meaning-- I saw people's fathers with women, people's mothers flirting with the gardener or their tennis instructor.  

We all know, biologically, humans are not monogamous the way penguins are.  We don't mate for life; we're adaptable. Reproductive biology is biological; love is something else.  There are even cheaters in the Bible, multiple wives (Jacob, for one-- Thomas Mann elaborates on this); it is part of the Genesis narrative. The damn President of the United States has historically had lovers... Monica Lewinsky made a career out of Clinton's indiscretion; Hillary maybe gained greater political access because of her loyalty.  Former President Trump fabricated an entire political brand based on cheating, lying, infidelities, disrespect, narcissism... his romantic infidelities don't seem nearly as heinous as the rest.  Except maybe for Melania, but she's not stupid... she made a marital contract.

Still, even when I married a rock musician, knowing the occupational hazards, I had a certain belief in the institution of marriage.  Our hip little wedding was in a church; we took vows and and exchanged rings; it mattered.  And then things wear... the bonds after multiple washings become threadbare... you try not to look, not to digest toxic rumors. But at a certain point, you weaken.  You question-- is it your own insecurity that caused this?  His insecurity about you? There seems to be no emotional answer.  And it hurts.  It wrecks you... it implodes the oath, the sanctity of this thing in which you believed.  So you make a choice-- either you weather the instability... or you leave.  More pain.  Or, as many couples do,  you cheat.  Yes, you... you mimic the same behavior as your spouse-- you even the score.  

I came of sexual age in the 70's.  Fidelity was not generally on the menu, lol. But we chose marriage-- the whole covenant, the tradition.  I loved my ring. I knew my husband had cheated; I tried to look away, but after a time, I grew apart-- and the first time I actually 'cheated'... well, the marriage was close to dissolution.  But I also slept with someone whose marriage had similarly disintegrated; we felt a commonality... it was like one step further away, because we were both victims of an unhappy arrangement.  For me it was a temporary narcotic... I felt better, I felt amazingly adored... and I felt like I'd taken a step back.  It slowed the emotional hemorrhage to a very slight drip.

But the fact is... the reality of discovering a cheater is jolting.  It's painful-- rejection, abandonment... and the scenario of one's paramour being intimate with a stranger is disturbing.  It exposes part of us, too; we are involved.  Cheaters don't always consider this-- the way we are forced into an intimacy with a third person we might hate... with someone who has disrespected us and weaponized our emotions. 

Do we heal from this?  I don't know.  I do know one can't unsee what one has seen.  And in this culture-- is digital cheating, or emailing or meeting up without actual sex... is this cheating?  Is it not 'your cheatin' heart' in the words of Hank Williams, that really kills us? 

My second husband seemed to fall madly in love with me.. .and while I'd sworn off marriage, I gave in.  It turned out he'd been living with someone else... so we started off on the wrong beat.  Were we doomed?  I'm not sure.  We even went to counseling where I was told that minor infidelities were super common in newly engaged couples... it was sort of a growing pain.  But I realized-- we all have a different tolerance for this stuff.  Some people keep their relationships going with extra partners, or fantasies... they watch porn, they act out little dramas.  

I seem to be the same idealistic person who refused to sign the flawed honor code.  I've been equally disillusioned, academically, by reading about plagiarisms, data crunching, scholarly truth-stretching even among venerated professors.  I'm also realistic about the person I am.  I love my son unconditionally.  His biological father abandoned him as a baby; today we celebrate me, the sole cross-gendered parent.  But me as a wife?  I've been jaded and spoiled... I don't know what's expected of me, or even what I expect.  There are times in my life I've had two lovers, or many... or times when I disconnected from someone who maybe truly loved me. The bottom line is-- people fall out of love.  For some, there is enough 'residue' to sustain a family. For others, they crave passion, and you can't, as Bonnie Raitt sang, make someone love you. I think in our hearts we sense this... and it's painful... it's also human... but it's breaking.

So for me Father's Day has a few meanings.  It's about my father who was unhappily faithful to his family... but who knows where his emotional meanderings took him?  It's about other people's fathers who were and weren't role models.  My son's father no longer exists except as a broken romance memory, and a set of divorce and custody papers from long ago.  And for me-- I toughened up, as a parent, and took up the reins.   Having some sympathy for people in unhappy situations, do I judge?  Children suffer and I tried to prioritize mine over my attraction to passionate entanglements. And like most of us, I made a ton of wrong choices.  But did I lie?  I did not. I adhered to my own honor code.  And one thing I do know... no matter who wins this election, no matter how the court swings, no matter how great or lousy America may be, cheating is here to stay. Amen. 

Scene Not Heard

I'm about to release a cd of original music. At these small benchmarks in our creative life, one becomes reflective.  For me, performing seldom these days, I ask myself why I am still working-- day after day-- without audience, without goals or a plan.  It occurred to me last night that when I was 3 years old I made a vinyl record.  It was one of those amusement-park booths where you actually sing into a microphone and they press up one copy on some kind of bona-fide machinery.  I sang Around the World I've Searched for You... a song I knew well from my mother who played a small repertoire of sheet music on the piano. I sang in perfect pitch-- didn't miss a lyric.  After the little performance, my father announced me-- my age, my name... and then clearly, amid the audible background sounds of carnival, I ask my sister.. Wanna do it? She denied. Silence.  Head shaking, I imagine.

At nursery school they acknowledged my musical abilities; they urged my parents to send me to a special school.  Apparently I'd not only had the lead role in their little performances, but I wrote the songs. My teachers told me this, when I got older; my mother was terrified I'd have a miserable life on some cheap stage and tried her best to discourage me.  I played all the instruments in my house-- not a genius, but it was comforting and felt like 'home'. I made up little melodies. In middle school and high school I was somewhat encouraged, and sang and danced in school performances. My older sister did as well... she was a natural drama queen, lol.

As a girl I was careful; it was the two of us, against conservative parents, and nothing was worth incurring the wrath of my older sister.  She was, unlike the dark Barbie to which I compared her physically, barbed.  She surveyed everything I acquired, suffered any accolade, and conspired to steal candy and gifts, which I freely gave her.  She was older; she had a certifiable mean-girl power. Despite certain talents which I was given, inherently-- I hid under a sort of cloak of mediocrity.  I had no ambition to be 'seen' or perform outside of the normal school parameters. I played our guitar quietly and secretly, shut myself up with books, early classic rock and Beethoven, and wrote my little stories and poems in notebooks which I've learned she discarded.

I've been reading Mann's Joseph and His Brothers.  It's an old translation, slow-going-- deliberately Biblical.  One must look up names and places and I've forgotten so much. But I've always been obsessed with the Jacob story-- the sibling rivalry, the stealing of the birthright.  Deception is common in these legends-- one wonders if the switching of Leah for Rachel was payback of a sort.  But clearly Jacob was the chosen brother... somehow the trickery was part of his destiny. And his acquired name, Israel, which I understand has something to do with struggle-- well, it all seems vaguely pertinent to the current situation in the Middle East.

Mann, at the beginning, touches on the Osiris legend.  I've always loved that name, and even as a girl, I wandered the Egyptian corridors of the Metropolitan Museum looking at images. But Osiris married his sister... and was killed by his jealous brother, dug up and put back together by his sister for enough time to make a baby, Horus.  It's endlessly complex and debatable and there are versions and tangents... but all of these histories seem to revolve around issues of parental favoritism, sibling jealousies... epic infighting. 

Joseph, the son of Jacob's beloved Rachel, was the favorite.  His fate-- both the good and the bad, seemed predetermined by the jealousy of his brothers.  Also his persona.  One molds oneself according to family peculiarities and dynamics.  But even as an adolescent, standing at the well, being scolded by his father, Joseph-- like a Biblical Elvis-- seemed destined for stardom.  While I am at the very beginning of this daunting novel and nearing the ending of a strange life, I can't help personalizing these issues. 

I've always shunned self-promotion.  Somehow it seems wrong for any kind of artist although it seems to have become not just prerequisite but part of the product. Of course they say success is generally the best revenge... but I'm not sure I ever wanted revenge. I just wanted not to be victimized.  What a terrible attitude this seems, in these times when even disabilities and flaws are displayed with pride. 

This new cd is the iceberg-tip of my productive output.  Were it not for the producer and arranger here, I probably would not have released anything.  I am grateful to him, for looking under the rock of my relative anonymity and wanting to chip away and bring a few of these to light.  Way beyond the threat of sibling hatred as I am, there is maybe a small sense of relief. Like Thomas Mann and the limited fame of this epic novel-- his personal magnum opus--  one is so often praised for the things that come easily, and overlooked for that which is difficult.  Unlike Mann, I will not be read by generations, or acknowledged by more than a small circle.  I am thinking more, in terms of this world, how rivalries-- jealousies, familial and tribal resentments-- national and political competition-- have destroyed so much of what might have been good and so worth saving.