Middlemarch

I recently finished the book Middlemarch by George Eliot. I've rarely read such a powerful character-driven novel. Centered around the town of Middlemarch in England, the book looks at the intertwining lives of various people. Plots are there, but they're more devices for us to look into the lives of the people involved. It's about ordinary people, where life pretty much goes on day by day and character is developed by small, daily choices. Marriage isn't the perfect ending that it is in Austen's work; the end towards which the whole book moves. In fact, in Middlemarch we start with a marriage between Dorothea and the middle-aged Casaubon and see how Dorothea's young idealistic hopes of being able to help her husband in his study are crippled by his distrust of himself and, consequently, those around him. Marriage isn't a place to end, but a place to begin.

Having breakfast with my dad recently we talked about books. He'd just finished The Fountainhead by Rand and described the protagonist an Individual - someone who makes their own choices and nobody can unduly influence him. He's his own man, strong jaw, decides for himself. Eliot tried to do the opposite here - nobody is on their own and the choices we make affect others. We are tied to others and at times confined by how our actions will touch upon them. Character matters, and character flaws don't go away as time goes on. At the end of the book I wondered how she would "tie it all up," as it wasn't a puzzle that was just missing a last piece and then it would all make sense. Character is more like a woven sweater and the flaws or missteps have to be corrected. And that takes work.

Eliot also has a genius for description and turns of phrases. Prosperity can be a "pale shade of bribery." The question "why?" is an "inconvenient word." Casaubon distrusted his wife, and "what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?" And if we could know what everyone around us was really going through "we should die of the roar that lies on the other side of silence."

It was simply marvelous to read.

We were listening to music in my brother's car, driving in to celebrate Christmas with my Grandpa.

My brother asks, "If 80 seconds make up a minute, 40 minutes make up an hour, and 20 hours make up a day, how long would that day be?"

A few seconds later his fiance replies "64,000 seconds."

Another story

Henry Anderson was a stocky sort of boy. He liked to explore the forests surrounding his village. His friends, especially Timothy, his best friend, had him do daring things, such as steal pies from windows.

One day, though, Timothy was very onry. He and Henry had gotten caught stealing pies. Normally, this wouldn’t have bothered Timothy, but Henry had babbled that it was all Timothy’s fault, and Tim had to chop wood for the widow for a week, instead of just the normal beating.

This is the beginning of a story I wrote when I was 11 years old. I think it was supposed to be about Henry, who grows up to be a dreadful tyrant, and his first wife Meghan, who is banished to the woods and takes in other's forsaken children. I didn't finish it.

My favorite Disney princess was Cinderella

I have been going through some of my old notebooks and binders. When I was in high school I very carefully went through everything and meticulously organized it, saving everything. I had saved just about every letter I received from the time I first really started having pen pals, in third grade. I saved all of my stories, everything I wrote, notes from friends, pictures my little sister drew for me. Now I'm trying to get rid of it.

It feels a little like betraying my 10-year-old self, as I throw away letters I kept for years. But I think it will be okay to get rid of them. I just finished copying into the computer the first chapter to an American Girl-esque story that I had written. It's heart-rending! The first, and only, chapter I wrote is about Amanda's family moving to San Diego and her tearful goodbye from her best friend Lexy. They "hug as if they would never let go" and talk of writing and visiting. At the end Lexy waves until the car is out of sight and then runs home to burst out crying.

And that's the end of the story. I was always drawn to the meloncholy; don't know why. I wanted to be Cinderella, the poor orphan whom everybody overlooks. Maybe she'll find her prince, but the point is that she's so pitiful. I feel a little incredulous at my childhood self. Why would I be drawn to a story like that? Why would I write about the wrenching goodbye of childhood friends? It wasn't my personal experience. It was a romantic (in the literary sense) vision for me, conjuring up a so-sweet longing inside.

Mostly it's interesting to remember things, especially some of my personal thoughts from high school. I notice things that I still deal with, such as trouble falling asleep at night, difficulty understanding my friendships, and too much pride in my school work.

Another thing that I remember, reading through my life, is that I never felt like a child the way that I sometimes think about children today. I never thought, at 10 years old, or 15, that I was acting like a kid or needed to grow up. My problems were fully real to me, and I felt fully alive. I don't know if that makes sense. I guess I remember that I always felt like I was right at the tip of my existence, like the head of a comet, with the tail of my days and years continually stretching out behind me. Now I find that I need to rediscover that childlike joy and ability to be fully present where I was.

dinner

Last night I had dinner with my parents and my two foster brothers. I had gotten in on the train in the morning and was just meeting the little six-year-old for the first time. I was enjoying supper; there were potatoes and sausage and fun conversation. Mom was going to pour some milk and my little foster brother wanted some, but then exclaimed to my her:

"Hey! You've got my glass!" His mug said "Army brother." Mom's said "Navy Dad." They switched. Then I noticed that my other foster brother's mug said "Army sister" and my dad's "navy mom." I think everybody had the wrong mug. I had a foster care mug.

I think things have changed since I was young. The six-year-old had taken too many sausages and couldn't finish them. So mom took them and he took more salad. I remember once sitting at the table for hours being forced to finish my spaghettios.

Afterwards I learned that Katie will get a bigger part of the inheritance because she always said "thank you very much for dinner; it was very good" after every meal. If I had known that, I would have been more polite, too. The six-year-old liked dinner, too. According to him it was

"very good! better than a.......chicken leg!"

straight lines

Once I was in the tractor with my dad. It was quiet. Then he said:

"Straight lines. My life is full of straight lines. The straighter the better; on curves you lose."

Then it was quiet again.

signs of my parents

Cups of tea, half drunk. Some of them sitting by her desk, her chair, on the table, by the pot of tea still brewing. When you open the microwave and there's a mug inside, now cold again.

that's my mother.

Flowers lying around, in different stages of drying. In the summer they'll have been picked for my mother from the garden or along the road. In the winter, the bright pink blossoms of the Christmas cactus.

that's from my father.