Meeting Prufrock

No doubt it's bad form to reference T.S. Eliot two days in a row, but I'm going to do it anyway. (And it probably won't be the last time I do so -- his work is uncannily applicable to everything in life.)

By far my favorite work by Eliot is the much acclaimed "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". I couldn't count how many times I've read and re-read it to myself, to friends, to anyone who would listen; or how many times I've worked various quotes from this piece into conversation, hoping that someone would catch my allusion. And despite many arguments I've heard to the contrary, I've always found this poem full of hope. Perhaps I'm guilty of some literary narcissism here, of looking into a work and seeing my own reflection instead of the author's words, but I have viewed the piece more as a warning than a resignation. And in light of Eliot's own trajectory as a poet and human being, I like to think he would have also seen it this way;. Prufrock's questions are Eliot's and my own, but the answer the poet and I come to is not the same as his. In penning the line, "It is impossible to say just what I mean", Eliot so poignantly disproved the exact point he was attempting to make, and he continued to do so in future works, continued to wield the words and bend them to his will, sometimes failing, but always knowing that it was worth it after all. Prufrock, then, is only a shadow, a thing that would have been had Eliot not been a poet and a man. I will grant you that I'm bringing some fairly large assumptions to my formation of this hope-filled reading of the text, but I stand by it just the same.

Or at least I would have until today.

Today I met Prufrock. I met a man who in the face of the overwhelming question chose not to dare, who resigned himself to being an attendant lord, a scuttling pair of ragged claws, pinned against the wall, but no longer wriggling. And the saddest part was the resignation itself. "It's not depressing," he said. "It's realistic." And he found some comfort in that, I think. A comfort that to me seemed more like misery.

I realized as he spoke that though we both love this poem, it is really two different poems that we love. I caught a glimpse of his version, and I do now see the sadness others have always told me was there. Sadly I think I will always see it now, and while part of me resents him this effect, I also see that I owe him my compassion. He has decided the mermaids will not sing to him.

On the Third Day

I didn't expect to already be pushing through a wall, but I am. I'd like to say it's because I've worked more and slept less than I should have over the past several days, but I don't know that I can really chalk it up to just that. Even now, I'm tempted to delete the very words I'm typing. Because what I have to say is not nearly interesting or profound enough. In moments like these I wonder whether the struggle is about not having anything to say at all or about being afraid to say something meaningless. I'm not sure which is worse.

But enough of the self-conscious crap. I made the decision I needed to. Eventually I'll stop talking about this thing I'm doing and will just do it. Tomorrow will be better.

Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.
(from "Burnt Norton" in T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets)

Lenten Lilting

I've taken on three tasks for Lent this year:

-- blog every day
-- actually go to church
-- fast from meat/animal products (except for fish)

The last one is the traditional Lenten fast - I figured if people have been doing it since the Middle Ages, I should give it a try.

The first one is by far the most challenging.

Last month I decided to wear only skirts and dresses to work. At first it was a pain, but an interesting thing happened after the month was over: I'm still wearing skirts nearly every day. In fact, this morning, I stared at the pants hanging in my closet and none of them appealed to me. The pendulum has effectively been swung.

My relationship with writing, especially in the public eye, is much more complicated than my wardrobe preferences, but I'm hoping there will prove to be some similarities. That's my hypothesis at least; we'll see what results the experiment yields. Frankly, I'm a little tired of only being able to write about the conflict and complexity. I'm swinging over to the simple side. And I am writing.

Returning to the Dust

I attended my first Ash Wednesday service tonight and found something very comforting and familiar in the ceremony, in the marking of this time of year, even though it's something I've never done before. I feel like my faith has been under wraps lately, like I have been tucking it away, saving it for later. It hasn't gone away, but it hasn't been on display either, mostly because I haven't been comfortable with the clothes it used to wear, with the stares it drew, with the choices it seemed to imply. It was easier to put it away with Emily Dickinson's life, "over there on the shelf", easier to let it be understated rather than misunderstood. But today I dusted it off and paraded it, naked and unashamed. And it felt good. Good to be connected to tradition outside myself and my questions, good to strip down to the basics just as the pastor preached, good to let myself reflect, both in onto myself and out onto the world. Afterwards, I walked home through the streets where I am usually anonymous, this time with an ashy proclamation on my forehead, and I thought: I may be ready to come out again.