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May. 31st, 2008 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
philenaI goofed up at work last week. My supervisor was in Zambia and had asked me to do some things, and I just forgot a few of them, and I had to face the repercussions when she got back, and I felt terrible. I still do. I had a dream about it last night, in which I did even more things wrong, but since they featured switching offices through worm-hole like transportation, involving somehow our petty cash box and and building an extension on it using a piece of cardboard 1000 ft. x 1000 ft.*, I'm not going to let it bother me too much. But I still feel incredibly guilty about the errors.
I've been reading Borges recently, working my way through his collected fictions. For the moment I've been playing with a three-tiered system of literature impressiveness: 1. Wow, that's really cool, and it's the kind of thing I might have written myself if I had the motivation and inspiration to get it done**. 2. Wow, that's really cool, and I understand it entirely, but I could never have thought of that myself. 3. Wow, that's really cool, I would never have thought of it myself, and I still don't entirely understand it, although I might one day. Henry James (especially The Ambassadors, which I like more and more the more I think about it in retrospect) falls into #3. Italo Calvino's stories (in particular the collection Cosmicomics) falls into #1, and Borges is squarely in #2. A particularly striking moment came as I was getting off BART last week, after having reluctantly put away the story "Three Versions of Judas," because my stop came too quickly to finish it. The story is one of those fictional reviews of invented men's literary works that Borges loves so much, and the man in this particular story had made his life's work a study of the God-made-flesh part of the story of Christ's passion. Through an elegant, logical, allusive*** series of arguments, he had come to the conclusion that actually if God became a man, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for mankind, he had to become not Christ, but Judas, because suffering is so much more terrible if there is no prospect of relief, and suffering in your soul for being a traitor is worse than suffering in your body but knowing you'll go to heaven. Then as I was stepping off the train, I looked up and saw one of those God Rides BART posters that have been appearing around BART for the past several months, and the question that was supposed to provoke thought among the heathen commuters was "Will God give you money if you obey him?" It was a bit early to deal with that kind of mental whiplash.
In other recent developments, spring is here, which means the farmers markets are getting much, much more interesting. In particular, they have been inundated recently with the most hideous looking beans I've ever seen:
After a little hesitant poking, I realized that these are fava beans, and so I bought a tentative handful to take home and experiment with. After all, the delicata squash from this winter opened whole new avenues of winter squash exploration, and seeing how one could not walk past a farmer stall without tripping over bushels of these things, clearly they were in season. To prepare them, you must split open the shell to expose the beanie things on the inside, and then each of the beanie things inside has a little soft shell that must be peeled off to expose the actual edible part. It was surprising how little food resulted from my fairly large tentative handful, but when simmered or steamed and then tossed in melted butter and lemon juice (and served with a nice chianti), fava beans are just wonderful, and absolutely worth the hour or so of preparation necessary to prepare about two servings. It particularly helps if you have someone to read James Thurber or Jack London stories to you while you work, especially if that someone has managed to beg off the peeling and shelling duty because of some excuse, like allergies and hands swelling up red after handling the beans. A bit too convenient, if you ask me, but he reads to me, and since I love being read to, I won't complain.
Speaking of being read to, I remember in second or third grade, my teacher was talking about how some of us were still not yet comfortable reading, and that was perfectly all right. Then she asked how many of us were still read to by our parents, I suppose in order to get us to see how many of us there were who were not quite comfortable reading on our own. At the time, my mother was reading Moby Dick aloud to me and my sister, so I put up my hand. Then I saw how few people actually wanted to admit that they were uncomfortable reading, and I realized that I was somehow telling people I couldn't read. This was, of course, a humiliating thing for people to think about me, and since I had somehow figured out that Moby Dick is "great literature," I snobbishly wanted to mention that it was different with me. I wasn't like those other kids. My mother was reading something "good," not whatever the equivalent of Captain Underpants was in 1993. I don't think I said anything, though; either I was too shy to speak up, or else some shred of burgeoning civilization in me realized that that would be inappropriate, and that separating myself from the other kids with their hands up, who were probably just as embarrassed as I was, would buy my elitism at their expense. And looking back on it now, I'm glad I didn't say anything.
On the other hand, there is one event that I'm very cranky I said nothing about. I was about the same age, and there was some girl who had been teasing and bothering me for a long, long time--probably at least a week! Ages, in 8-year-old Clara time. I didn't know her name, so I couldn't report her, and she was always careful to torment me when no one was around. One day, after lunch, I was walking in the hall holding a large ball, and she started walking next to me, imitating my movements, pretending to hold the ball even though she wasn't carrying anything. However, this time there was a teacher's aide ahead of us down the hall, so I bellowed her name. She didn't look back, and I think she even started walking faster. (This was the same teacher's aid my parents and I once saw in a restaurant, working a second job as a server. I was so embarrassed that I dived under the table, and the fact that in the same meal I spilled a drink and she had to clean up after me made seeing her so out of context even worse.) Maybe after recess her part-time job as a teacher's aide was over and she just wanted to go home. I don't know. At any rate, I realized that my chance to report this horrible nameless girl was getting away, so I grabbed onto her shirt so she wouldn't get away while I hollered some more for the aid. Finally someone else came, and took us both to the office to make us "sign the book," which was what you were supposed to do if you were bad. At the time I didn't care, because at least the other girl (whose name I still remember: Jenna DaSilva) was in trouble too, but I realized from the other teachers' conversation as we were walking to the office that they thought I was holding her shirt so that I could punch her in the face, like they do in the movies, and that was why I was in trouble also. And I didn't explain myself to them! I didn't tell them why I was holding her! (In fact, I think my reaction to what they said was an inward, "Hmmm . . . yeah, I could have punched her if I wanted. Good idea. I'll remember that for next time.") I don't think that would have done any good, but at least my side of the story would be told. Adults are very quick to ignore justice in child terms. They just want everyone to knock it off and behave well from now on, and if they don't know who started it, they punish everyone equally****. And I can see the logic in that, but it creates lasting resentments in the children. Like this one. If I were on facebook I might even look up Jenna DaSilva and and see what she's up to and ask her if she remembers how much I hated her, but I doubt that would be a very nice thing to do.
I think I should pull myself out of the past. I'll just consign the incident to the endless list of recriminations and move on. Like to this, for example:
Daniel and I are getting married! June 30th. Alameda County Clerk's office. That is all.
*It was very hard to find in SF in one day. I think I had it narrowed down to a pool-supply provider, which had pieces of cardboard in that size for the purpose of lining the wall on indoor swimming pools before applying the tiles, but I woke up before I could actually call them and see if they could get it to me the same day.
**Daniel and I often stop in the middle of a conversation to mention that whatever we've just been discussing would make a really good short story or novel, but we never sit down and actually write it.
***Although often Borges's allusions are as invented as the intellectuals who allude to them.
****I was once walking in the street and I saw two red-headed twins being put in the car by their nanny or caretaker. When her back was turned, one shoved the other, and the other tried to push him off, but the nanny turned around only in time to see twin 2 push back at twin 1, so she chastised him. He tried to explain that twin 1 had started it, and she said she didn't care who started it, now behave yourself. I was an impartial witness, and I felt very sympathetic for twin 2, and I thought about stopping and explaining to the nanny that he was right; twin 1 really had started it. But I decided the nanny would not thank me for stirring up a ruckus again that she had just quieted down, so I walked on.
I've been reading Borges recently, working my way through his collected fictions. For the moment I've been playing with a three-tiered system of literature impressiveness: 1. Wow, that's really cool, and it's the kind of thing I might have written myself if I had the motivation and inspiration to get it done**. 2. Wow, that's really cool, and I understand it entirely, but I could never have thought of that myself. 3. Wow, that's really cool, I would never have thought of it myself, and I still don't entirely understand it, although I might one day. Henry James (especially The Ambassadors, which I like more and more the more I think about it in retrospect) falls into #3. Italo Calvino's stories (in particular the collection Cosmicomics) falls into #1, and Borges is squarely in #2. A particularly striking moment came as I was getting off BART last week, after having reluctantly put away the story "Three Versions of Judas," because my stop came too quickly to finish it. The story is one of those fictional reviews of invented men's literary works that Borges loves so much, and the man in this particular story had made his life's work a study of the God-made-flesh part of the story of Christ's passion. Through an elegant, logical, allusive*** series of arguments, he had come to the conclusion that actually if God became a man, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for mankind, he had to become not Christ, but Judas, because suffering is so much more terrible if there is no prospect of relief, and suffering in your soul for being a traitor is worse than suffering in your body but knowing you'll go to heaven. Then as I was stepping off the train, I looked up and saw one of those God Rides BART posters that have been appearing around BART for the past several months, and the question that was supposed to provoke thought among the heathen commuters was "Will God give you money if you obey him?" It was a bit early to deal with that kind of mental whiplash.
In other recent developments, spring is here, which means the farmers markets are getting much, much more interesting. In particular, they have been inundated recently with the most hideous looking beans I've ever seen:
After a little hesitant poking, I realized that these are fava beans, and so I bought a tentative handful to take home and experiment with. After all, the delicata squash from this winter opened whole new avenues of winter squash exploration, and seeing how one could not walk past a farmer stall without tripping over bushels of these things, clearly they were in season. To prepare them, you must split open the shell to expose the beanie things on the inside, and then each of the beanie things inside has a little soft shell that must be peeled off to expose the actual edible part. It was surprising how little food resulted from my fairly large tentative handful, but when simmered or steamed and then tossed in melted butter and lemon juice (and served with a nice chianti), fava beans are just wonderful, and absolutely worth the hour or so of preparation necessary to prepare about two servings. It particularly helps if you have someone to read James Thurber or Jack London stories to you while you work, especially if that someone has managed to beg off the peeling and shelling duty because of some excuse, like allergies and hands swelling up red after handling the beans. A bit too convenient, if you ask me, but he reads to me, and since I love being read to, I won't complain.
Speaking of being read to, I remember in second or third grade, my teacher was talking about how some of us were still not yet comfortable reading, and that was perfectly all right. Then she asked how many of us were still read to by our parents, I suppose in order to get us to see how many of us there were who were not quite comfortable reading on our own. At the time, my mother was reading Moby Dick aloud to me and my sister, so I put up my hand. Then I saw how few people actually wanted to admit that they were uncomfortable reading, and I realized that I was somehow telling people I couldn't read. This was, of course, a humiliating thing for people to think about me, and since I had somehow figured out that Moby Dick is "great literature," I snobbishly wanted to mention that it was different with me. I wasn't like those other kids. My mother was reading something "good," not whatever the equivalent of Captain Underpants was in 1993. I don't think I said anything, though; either I was too shy to speak up, or else some shred of burgeoning civilization in me realized that that would be inappropriate, and that separating myself from the other kids with their hands up, who were probably just as embarrassed as I was, would buy my elitism at their expense. And looking back on it now, I'm glad I didn't say anything.
On the other hand, there is one event that I'm very cranky I said nothing about. I was about the same age, and there was some girl who had been teasing and bothering me for a long, long time--probably at least a week! Ages, in 8-year-old Clara time. I didn't know her name, so I couldn't report her, and she was always careful to torment me when no one was around. One day, after lunch, I was walking in the hall holding a large ball, and she started walking next to me, imitating my movements, pretending to hold the ball even though she wasn't carrying anything. However, this time there was a teacher's aide ahead of us down the hall, so I bellowed her name. She didn't look back, and I think she even started walking faster. (This was the same teacher's aid my parents and I once saw in a restaurant, working a second job as a server. I was so embarrassed that I dived under the table, and the fact that in the same meal I spilled a drink and she had to clean up after me made seeing her so out of context even worse.) Maybe after recess her part-time job as a teacher's aide was over and she just wanted to go home. I don't know. At any rate, I realized that my chance to report this horrible nameless girl was getting away, so I grabbed onto her shirt so she wouldn't get away while I hollered some more for the aid. Finally someone else came, and took us both to the office to make us "sign the book," which was what you were supposed to do if you were bad. At the time I didn't care, because at least the other girl (whose name I still remember: Jenna DaSilva) was in trouble too, but I realized from the other teachers' conversation as we were walking to the office that they thought I was holding her shirt so that I could punch her in the face, like they do in the movies, and that was why I was in trouble also. And I didn't explain myself to them! I didn't tell them why I was holding her! (In fact, I think my reaction to what they said was an inward, "Hmmm . . . yeah, I could have punched her if I wanted. Good idea. I'll remember that for next time.") I don't think that would have done any good, but at least my side of the story would be told. Adults are very quick to ignore justice in child terms. They just want everyone to knock it off and behave well from now on, and if they don't know who started it, they punish everyone equally****. And I can see the logic in that, but it creates lasting resentments in the children. Like this one. If I were on facebook I might even look up Jenna DaSilva and and see what she's up to and ask her if she remembers how much I hated her, but I doubt that would be a very nice thing to do.
I think I should pull myself out of the past. I'll just consign the incident to the endless list of recriminations and move on. Like to this, for example:
Daniel and I are getting married! June 30th. Alameda County Clerk's office. That is all.
*It was very hard to find in SF in one day. I think I had it narrowed down to a pool-supply provider, which had pieces of cardboard in that size for the purpose of lining the wall on indoor swimming pools before applying the tiles, but I woke up before I could actually call them and see if they could get it to me the same day.
**Daniel and I often stop in the middle of a conversation to mention that whatever we've just been discussing would make a really good short story or novel, but we never sit down and actually write it.
***Although often Borges's allusions are as invented as the intellectuals who allude to them.
****I was once walking in the street and I saw two red-headed twins being put in the car by their nanny or caretaker. When her back was turned, one shoved the other, and the other tried to push him off, but the nanny turned around only in time to see twin 2 push back at twin 1, so she chastised him. He tried to explain that twin 1 had started it, and she said she didn't care who started it, now behave yourself. I was an impartial witness, and I felt very sympathetic for twin 2, and I thought about stopping and explaining to the nanny that he was right; twin 1 really had started it. But I decided the nanny would not thank me for stirring up a ruckus again that she had just quieted down, so I walked on.
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-06 01:14 am (UTC)I have always loved you and Daniel as a couple and I'm really happy to hear that you are getting married!
I miss you. I wish I could be there, I would sing "comes the pretty young bride"
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Date: 2008-06-06 04:50 am (UTC)What are you up to, anyway? Still in Chicago? Still Arabicking it up?
no subject
Date: 2008-06-06 10:50 am (UTC)I'm no longer in Chicago sadly, I miss it every day. Tom and I live in Alexandria, VA and I'm working for the man in Washington DC. it's great! and I brought my kitty back from Doha, and that's great too!