Under the Glass Bell

In Sickness and in March

I taste spring. It drives me to start new things.

I've had a blog before. This one is different. Securing anonymity. What will that do for me?

A dear friend gave me a glass bell for my 35th birthday, which was a month ago. And I fell back in love with my dear Anais Nin over the past month. I re-read House of Incest. It ignited me. How can words make one feel the way that book makes me feel?

Nin wrote a book called Under a Glass Bell. It is on my "To Read" list. Such beauty in her writing. I want to focus and feel a bit of the beauty of life every single day.

I am sick today. Terrible cold. Maybe that's why my sentences are so short.

Onward and upward.

Nin

"When we walked the streets, bodies close together, arm in arm, hands locked, I was in such ecstasy I could not talk. The city disappeared, and so did the people. The acute joy of our walking together through the grey streets of Paris I shall never forget, and I shall never be able to describe it. We were walking above the world, above reality, into pure, pure ecstasy."

- Anais Nin

Dead Meat, Don't You Know You're Dead Meat

A few years back, I either read something in the New Yorker or some how stumbled across the story of Tobias Schneebaum. Maybe it was an NPR story. I don't know. I checked his "Keep the River on Your Right" out of the library. And while I was enjoying it, I don' t believe that I ever finished it. I'd forgotten all about it when Tivo picked up a movie called, "Keep the River on Your Right." And sure enough, it was a documentary on Schneebaum going back to Peru, where he had basically left our society and joined up with a tribe of natives as an "anthropologist" 40 years ago. I put antropologist in quotes because he caught a lot of flack from the scientific communicty because he participated in life with the tribe. He had sexual relationships with members and partook in cannibalism in one instance. The movie is really worth a rental. It's an amazing story. He's an amazing man. I'm sad to see that he died about a year and a half ago. He was in his mid-eighties. Oh, and to top all of this off? He was a known painter and gay Jew who lived in Manhattan. It's a trip. Inspires me to engage more deeply in life. So, I just went to Half.com and bought his book, "Keep the River on Your Right".

And then I had to buy a bit more. Cause books are so damn cheap on Half.com. I broke down and bought Annie Leibovitz's new book for $45. I'm dying to see it. I also added another Rumer Godden book to my collection. And, my beloved Joan Didion, Play It As It Lays. I snagged my mom's copy of The Jungle over Christmas. I'm 3/4 f the way through it. I believe I was in high school or even junior high when I read it last. Heartbreaking stuff. It made a big impression on me the first time I read it, even more so now that I live in Chicago and I am an adult. Should be required reading for all Americans.

I knitted my sister a tea cozy for Christmas. It turned out to be quite delightful. It had an eight ball motif. I finished it using a crochet stitch and wove in all my ends. With each stitch I knitted, I tried to feel my love for her despite all of the anger and resentment that I have held towards her over the past year. You see, my sister, who is an odd duck, and oftentimes lives in her own little world ignoring the rest of us, skipped my sons bris when he was born last January. That after I explained the month before how important it was that we were all there. And she did not call to tell me that she was't coming. She just didn't show up. She didn't call after I had my emergency C-section. She didn't send flowers or a gift or an email. My mom brougt flowers and had signed my sister's name. Every gift that was supposed to be from my sister was signed in my mom's handwriting.

This is so hurtful to me. It breaks my heart. And I am so angry. When C was two months old, she called out of nowhere to tell me that she had a new job possibility. And was all chipper and proud and acted as if nothing had happened. She still hadn't acknowledged my son's birth in any way. And I was cordial and wished her well. And then she had the nerve to ask what was wrong. And I unloaded. How dare you not show up for your nephew's bris. How dare you not call to ask me how I was even once dring the entire pregnancy. And you have the nerve to call me and act like life is fine and you're just checking in?

Two words: Fuck You.

I tried to take the high road after I unloaded. I sent her flowers congratulating her on her opportunity. Nothing. Sent pictures of the baby. Nothing. She did not come to the shower my aunt threw for C and I last April. And skipped out on every family get together since. She had only met my son once when he went to stay w/ my mom and dad for a few days while B and I were off on business. They were "sick" for Thanksgiving. But, did show up for Christmas. And it was awkward. And it was weird. But I tried to play it straight. To be kind. And give her a gift that I made with my own two hands, stitch by stitch. Each stitch containing my own prayer of love and forgiveness and struggle to accept her as she is.

Not much progress was made. But at least we were in the same room. And were civil. And she giggled at my silly, lovely baby. Hanukkah was better than Christmas, thank god. I love the festival of lights. I love the Menorrah. I love the food. And the gathering of our friends. I love the blackberry pearl my hub bought me. I love the Hanukkah prayer and the story of cleaning the temple and only having enough oil for one day, however, it lasted for eigt. Miracles come in all shapes and forms. If only I can conjure one in my heart to accept my sister as she is and to let go of what I think I need from her.

Untruth and Beauty

I just finished Ann Patchett's Truth and Beauty: A Friendship. What an amazing book. I'd read Lucy Grealy's Autobiography of a Face a couple of years ago. (Patchett's friendship with Grealy, who died of a drug overdose last December, is the subject of Truth and Beauty.) I feel honored to have been given this view into their deep and unconventional friendship. The story made me think about how it's easy to find surface friends and much harder to find connections that transcend souls. Once you find a friend like that, there is no giving them up. That's what Patchett believes and wants you to believe that she had with Grealy.

But I couldn't help but wonder if that's truly what went down or were they in a co-dependent relationship in which Patchett (as well as Grealy's other friends) served as an enabler? There was a point in which Patchett thought about ending the friendship; she couldn't stand to watch her friend self-destruct. (Grealy was using heroin heavily at that time.) But in the end Patchett couldn't bring herself to cut it off. We're witness to countless instances in which Patchett wants to step in and have Grealy come live with her in order to save her. The only reason this doesn't happen is because Grealy refuses it.

I once had a very close friend who had a massive drug problem. It took me years to own up to how bad her problem really was. She smoked pot daily. She would smoke in her car before coming in to meet you for dinner. She would smoke before she went to work in the morning. She brought her pipe with her everywhere so if she needed some fortification, she could slip into an alley or a bathroom stall. I ignored this for a long time because she was such a vivacious and creative and wise person in so many other ways.

I reached a point where I couldn't watch it anymore. I loved this friend, but looking back there had always been an odd balance of power in our relationship. I was more than ten years younger than her, but she always treated me as if I was older. She had an odd, childlike admiration of my knowing what I wanted in life and busting my ass to get it. As I got to know her more, I also saw a pattern where she tried to date men who were ten to 15 years her junior. The men always saw her as an older sister and she would be really torn up when that happened. She experienced severe depression and used the pot and alcohol to self-medicate.

Two events broke the camel's back. She drove me home one night drunk. I should have known that she was drunk before I even got into the car with her. I think I was just afraid to do otherwise. I had little money back then and couldn't really afford the cab ride. It was 3:30 in the morning, so the train wouldn't have been safe. I didn't quite realize how drunk she was, however. It was a frightening, out of control ride home. She blared the radio and was driving fast through the city. I was furious but said nothing at the time. But she took her eyes off the road for a minute and nearly slammed into a car that was stopped in front of her. We screamed as she slammed on her breaks and barely avoided a collision. She drove as slow as a turtle the rest of the way to my apartment.

The next day she called me to apologize and to swear it would never happen again. It wasn't enough for me though. I realized that I had to set new boundaries with her if I was going to continue the friendship, so I did that. I no longer accepted rides from her. If it was a night out, I only went out with her in group settings where someone else would be with me to help deal with her if she got crazy-drunk/stoned and wanted to drive. She didn't seem to notice these changes.

A few months later, she called one night, incredibly depressed. She told me how she'd come home late in the evening the night before after a dinner where she tried to seduce a man who'd told her before that he just wanted to be friends. (He was actually married.) She came home and was so depressed and frustrated that she went out to the garbage dumpster behind her apartment, found a bunch of beer bottles there and then hurled them at the brick wall next to it, screaming and sobbing the entire time. She continued that she felt she could turn to me with this because I knew how black things could be and what it felt like to want to kill yourself.

This was too much for me. I really couldn't relate to what she hoped I could. Yes, I had my bouts of depression and dramatic thoughts of suicide in college, but it was more drama than anything else. I didn't really get what she was saying. And it was confusing because I was all of 26 and she was nearing 40. Shouldn't she be better equipped to deal with the disappointments in life than me?

The cold hard reality in front of me was that over a period of years, I'd watched her behavior and coping mechanisms disintegrate before my eyes, disintegrate to a point where she was yelling and screaming and sobbing while breaking bottles against a brick wall in public. I couldn't stand by and watch any more. What that meant for me was that I was going to have to voice my concern over her drug abuse and behavior in a meaningful way, in a louder way than I ever had before. My friend was known for turning on others quickly. I feared she would turn on me.

Do you know how hard it is to tell someone that they are hurting themselves?

How do you say it?

I said it in a letter because that way I could be precise. I told her that I was concerned, that I thought she needed some help. I said that I didn't want to see her so depressed, so caught up in the vicious circle of self-medicating followed by the let down that inevitably came afteward.

She called after she got the letter and asked me over. She had moved a couple of months before. I was shocked when I walked into her apartment and it was still covered in boxes full of her belongings. She said the letter devastated her. She said she couldn't believe that I thought so poorly of her. She thought she was doing better. I tried to explain that it wasn't about doing poorly or well. It was about not endangering herself or others.

I left that night after she said she'd need some time off. I got a letter a couple of weeks later. It was angry and accusatory, asking me what it was that I was trying to get out of the situation. Why did I feel the need to hurt her?

I didn't respond for a long time. What was there to say? When I sent my response, she didn't write or call.

A couple of years later, I looked her up. We met a couple of times for dinner. The second time she told me that she didn't think she could do this. She said I had destroyed her with my confrontation.

I'm sure those words were meant to hurt me. I'm sure there was an element of drama involved. But it's not fun to hear someone that you care about say that to you. In the end, I could do nothing except let her fade away. I still think of her. And I still wonder how she is. I still include her in my prayers and hope she is well.

Is that the fate that Patchett couldn't face? Knowing that she is capable of writing the complex, emotional masterpiece that is Bel Canto, I suspect it was the end that she preferred to avoid.

Energized by Nin

I've finished Volume I of Anais Nin's diary and am about halfway through Volume II. What an amazing piece of work. I want to read the entire edited series released in the 60s and then go back and read the unedited versions released in the early 90s.

I don't know which I've fallen more in love with...Nin's writing or her thinking. I'm struck by her constant striving to hone her understanding of who she is. And the way that she writes about it all is breathtakingly beautiful. There is an inner ache that comes through in most of her writing, a bittersweet aura that surrounds her words.

I read Tropic of Cancer a year or so ago. I appreciate it more now after seeing Henry Miller through Anais' eyes. I love the way she captures the encouragement that they provide each other, the unfettered belief they have in each other's identity and value as artists. Miller's writing is crackling fresh and though she quotes very little of it, the way she falls under its spell brought it fresh into my mind.

An aside...when we read Tropic of Cancer in my book club, we were taken aback at his constant use of the word cunt. Not taken aback in a prudish sort of way, but rather amazed that folks used that word so liberally back then. We got a good laugh out of it and took to using the word more frequently when referring to each other in closed company...a naughty little wink to Henry Miller. I read in Anais' diary last night about incidents in which women would come up to Miller on the street and say, "Who's your latest cunt?" and he would turn crimson and walk away. Good to know their were women with like minds of me and my friends in Paris in the late 30s.

I'm also taken with Nin's experiences with psychotherapy. Therapy fascinates me. I love delving into the mind and emotions; getting to know myself better, becoming more conscious. Like her, I crave understanding of my desires and needs and reactions. I want to understand why I do the things that I do. I want to understand how my past drives me and to uncover a thoroughly conscious being in control of her own life. I see so many unconscious people in this world. I am a product of two of the most unconscious people I know (my parents) or ever hope to know. I see a therapist with deep Freudian roots weekly. If forced to choose, I'd probably forego food and water before giving up my therapist's couch.

We hear of Nin's experience with two different analysts in the first volume. Then, she herself becomes a therapist at the beginning of Volume II. She gives it up after a short while feeling that other people's problems begin to eat her alive. In regard to her own progress in therapy, she wrote a lot about the theory of having "multiple selves". She had a self that was a nurturer and caretaker and a self that was an artist and these two parts of herself were often in conflict. She writes about it so honestly. I prompted me to start thinking about the primary selves inside of me that cause internal conflict and I had a couple of really fascinating sessions with my therapist as a result.

I also love the way that Nin depicts Paris itself as a character. Paris seems so eternal to me. She describes restaurants that are still there today (Le Dome, etc.). She talks about walking down streets that I walked down a little over a month ago. Her cafe scenes and the vibe she describes on the streets are still there.

I feel infused with energy after reading this woman's account of her life. She inspires me to look more closely at the streets that surround me here in Chicago, to embrace the world around me...to want more from it, to give it more. After reading her words, I want to try harder and to connect more and to feel more deeply and to open my mind wider.

Anais Nin, Journaling and Reality TV

I recently read an article in Tikkun which made me want to read Anais Nin.

Book Review: The Seduction of Anais Nin

I haven't read much of Nin. No particular reason for that. Her works just never made it up to the top of my "To Read" list. But lately, I keep coming back around to the idea of "authenticity" in relationships. And this article was one more reference to authenticity that found it's way in front of me. Plus, the fact that I've been making annual trips to Paris for the past couple of years makes me want to read her. And she was in Paris as the same time as Stein. And we read Tropic of Cancer in my bookclub a year or so ago. So I went to Half.com and bought the first three editions of her journal.

I wonder about the folks who became so angry when they read Nin's unedited journals, who called into question her entire character once a version of Nin's life that was less edited by her came into being. I'll read more of the journals before I form an opinion on that however.

It's odd. I started reading the first journal (which is basically covered in the movie Henry and June) and I'm really bothered by the fact that she doesn't once mention her husband. She goes on at length about the house she lives in, her mom and brother who live with her, her daily life, but not mention of the hubby. I then went back and read the intro and it appears that he did not want to be so much as mentioned in the published version of the journal. It would seem that alone should be enough for the reader to view the pictures that she paints through wary eyes and to not take everything at face value.

I'll keep reading.

One thing about the Tikkun article. I think the author gives America too much credit when it comes to our fascination with reality TV. (And I'm guilty. I watch Survivor religiously and have watched Joe Millionaire, Average Joe and The Apprentice. Ouch! The last 3 are not easy to admit.)

Amy Wilner writes:

It can't be mere coincidence that reality television, on the other hand, thrives because enough of us find pleasure, or satisfaction, or relief, or fascination, in watching the aggression, hostility, humiliation, and shame of others. Our fascination with and envy of celebrities can make their upsets and failures even more gratifying. Still, whether it's the admittedly intriguing group dynamics of shows like Survivor or Big Brother, or the lengths to which individual people will go for a chance at "love," if we felt compassionately towards these people, we'd change the channel, if not turn off the set. But we're just certain enough that these folks aren't really suffering, that the "reality" is "just television," to delight in it instead. We may root for an underdog here and there, but not without mustering some real contempt for others along the way. So couple the collective schadenfreude that allows us to revel in the misfortunes of others, with the drive to project and disown our own hostility and aggression by watching it played out by others, and reality television has a niche market. We've mastered and disguised the village stoning so that it takes place in our own living rooms, and without physical violence. Shame wins the day and once again television proves to be a superior medium for keeping ourselves disconnected, safely removed to a place from which we can watch rather than participate, look rather than feel.

It's the

But we're just certain enough that these folks aren't really suffering, that the "reality" is "just television," to delight in it instead.

that I disagree with. I don't think we think it's just television. I think we do believe that people are being hurt and we enjoy it, no ifs ands or buts. Seeing others suffering, somehow makes our own suffering more manageable. I've sworn off the "dating" reality shows since the last "Average Joe". I've no desire to watch The Apprentice again. I'm going to wrap up this season of Survivor (finale on Sunday!) and then maybe do some thinking about what it is about that show that I like so much.

Back to Anais and her journal. I'm inspired to do a better job on my own lackadaisical attempts at journaling. I used to be better about it, but I journal quite infrequently these days. That doesn't make sense for someone who swears she wants to "be a writer". I also tend to do a lot of bitcing in my journal. My new journaling goal...less bitching, more observing and analyzing.