Leucothea's veil

. . . and each of these Albertines was different, as in every fresh  appearance of the dancer whose colours, form, character, are transmuted according to the innumerably varied play of a projected limelight. It was perhaps because they were so different, the persons whom I used to contemplate in her at this period, that later on I became myself a different person, corresponding to the particular Albertine to whom my thoughts had turned; a jealous, an indifferent, a voluptuous, a melancholy, a frenzied person, created anew not merely by the accident of what memory had risen to the surface, but in proportion also to the strength of the belief that was lent to the support of one and the same memory by the varying manner in which I appreciated it. For this is the point to which we must always return, to these beliefs with which most of the time we are quite unconsciously filled, but which for all that are of more importance to our happiness than is the average person whom we see, for it is through them that we see him, it is they that impart his momentary greatness to the person seen. To be quite accurate I ought to give a different name to each of the 'me’s' who were to think about Albertine in time to come; I ought still more to give a different name to each of the Albertines who appeared before me, never the same, like -- called by me simply and for the sake of convenience 'the sea'--those seas that succeeded one another on the beach, in front of which, a nymph likewise, she stood apart. But above all, in the same way as, in telling a story (though to far greater purpose here), one mentions what the weather was like on such and such a day, I ought always to give its name to the belief that, on any given day on which I saw Albertine, was reigning in my soul, creating its atmosphere, the appearance of people like that of seas being dependent on those clouds, themselves barely visible, which change the colour of everything by their concentration, their mobility, their dissemination, their flight-- like that cloud which Elstir had rent one evening by not introducing me to these girls, with whom he had stopped to talk, whereupon their forms, as they moved away, had suddenly increased in beauty—a cloud that had formed again a few days later when I did get to know the girls, veiling their brightness, interposing itself frequently between my eyes and them, opaque and soft, like Virgil’s Leucothea. ("Within a Budding Grove" II.346)

Exploring this transformation to the image of Leucothea's veil.  The rough progression of nouns here (skipping a few): 

Albertines 

dancer

colors 

form 

character

play

limelight

persons 

I 

memory

surface

belief

manner

point

time

name

me's

Albertines

sea

beach 

nymph

story 

weather 

day

soul 

atmosphere 

appearance

seas 

clouds 

color

concentration

mobility

dissemination 

flight

cloud 

Elstir

evening 

girls

forms

beauty

cloud 

days

girls

brightness

eyes

Virgil’s

Leucothea

Transformation of images/metaphors:

       We begin with a multiplicity of Albertines.  In each one resides the "appearance of a dancer," with  transforming elements of "colours, form, character"-- changing from shifts in hue to the more radical alterations of shape and essence-- all under the guiding influence of the "limelight."  The image of the dancer provides a sense of movement, lightness, and grace, while the "varied play" of the stage light intentionally directs viewers' attention and alters their perceptions. The dancer becomes a blur of movement and color, leaving us to wonder what could possibly be the "real" nature of the dancer, of Albertine?  But what we can answer about this question, Proust speculates is more about the viewer.  We discern latent pieces surrounding the overall narrative of Albertine, her colors, forms, and characters. Then it is an act of belief to reconcile our narrative to the person under scrutiny, to formulate where the dancer is now and all her past movements into one unfolding dance. Thus the dance emerges from this act of "ris[ing] to the surface" through all the layers of consciousness.  And through surfacing, we move into the next metaphor, the sea.

       Albertine is also like the sea, in that one name simplifies a much more complex entity.  The sea has her mutability as well, and Proust makes her a nymph on the beach under those changes circumstances of clouds and light that form the character of a day, as Proust argues, the very "atmosphere" of the viewer's soul.  What we see by subtle changes in light is not just the moving dancer, nymph, sea, but a changing glimpse of our internal being. Then the focus alters to the clouds themselves: "their mobility, their dissemination, their flight--" as a protective covering shading the otherwise too piercing beauty of the sun's unabashed brightness, parallel to the girls' beauty.  A cloud the narrator finds gives him some safety from too keen a desire-- too keen a vision-- experienced in true Proustian fashion by the narrator wanting what he cannot have.  In the end, this cloud becomes like the "opaque and soft" Leucothea.  More properly the clouds might be Leucothea's veil, but here the "veil" is reserved for the verb "veiling," and the clouds seem to morph into Leucothea herself: her essential grace, her principle of saving.

        Leucothea in The Odyssey was a young woman that became a sea goddess and rescued Odysseus by giving him her veil to wrap around his body and stay afloat in the waves.  Here she connects with Albertine as another young woman and unites the nymph reference, sea metaphor, and cloud/veiling imagery.  Proust transitions us as readers from clouds to the image of her veil: white, soft, covering.  From water vapor to the sea-goddess enfolding the drowning sea-goer to buoy him up in the waves, as the clouds cloak the too brilliant heat and light of desire from the narrator, to also save him from a type of drowning.
Creating atmosphere in the soul.  Saving the soul.

MLK National Day of Service

I got up with J.D. when he went to work. I walked to the metro and waited for the train. I sat on the bench and thought randomly about freezing to death. I've read that after awhile you feel warm or just fall asleep (images of climbing Everest alongside pages from Jack London playing through my head). Finally, the train came, and I enjoyed feeling the warmth soak back into my body. I noticed the air rushing out of the warm train at every stop because it cast a shadow on the seat in front of me.

I got off at UMSL North and walked to the Touhill. Up the stairs, to the Lee Theater. I checked in and was given a t-shirt, but I didn't put it on immediately. Instead, I grabbed a left-over donut and a cup of tepid coffee, swigging it down. Then I hurried to the main theater, only to be turned away at the doors by the usher, who said, "This area is for special people." I told her I was instructed to come this way, and she only pointed to the stairs, down to lower seating. I reflected that it felt unnecessary to behave that way, especially for the occasion. I did find a seat in the back, I suppose with the "unspecial" masses, which was just fine with me. I'll take the seat in the back with my fellows rather than the upper legion of seraphim. The ceremony itself was nice. I enjoyed the singing by the New Sunny Mount Missionary Baptist Church Chancel Choir -- what a mouthful. Their a capella rendition of "Jericho" was lively and moving, but I was thinking, why do we celebrate a military victory where genocide was the aftermath? I guess it all matters who's the hero and who's telling the story. Earlier, I had felt moved by the invocation by Rev. William Kempf. I wish I could remember exactly what he said. Isn't it sad how the usher's words were burned into my brain, but I lost the reverend's words? Overall, I enjoyed sitting with a group that felt joyful about tomorrow. I enjoyed the feeling of fellowship, harmony, and agreement. As the speeches progressed, singers sang, and dancers danced, as voice-overs and snippets of Dr. King's speeches were played again and again, mantras and leitmotifs, I began to realize that at some point in our lives, we all make a choice. We decide if we want to stand in the choir of fear or the choir of hope. If we stand with those in power or those oppressed. If we stand for aggression or peace. If we stand for self-interest or community. If we stand for the love of ourselves or for others. There aren't many beliefs that I have about life, at least not anymore. But I do believe it's in our power to choose good, and I do believe with all my heart in the sanctity of love. Mom has been telling me recently about the talk radio at home. Some of my family members listen to those types of programs everyday and get a vision of the world where people are untrustworthy; where we are supposed to be scared and afraid; where difference is the source of the problem. People in Burley are good people, really good. But this is the divide that I felt very clearly today. Right now people are either preaching doom and destruction (with a fresh twist of Armageddon on the side) or the radical opposite, visions of utopia. That's not what I'm talking about either. This isn't an unrealistic dream scape, a "no where." This is the call to a reality that will never be perfect, but it can sure be better. Mainly it's like coming back into the warmth, letting that warmth soak into you again, letting your mind drift from fearful images and thoughts of freezing to death, to a warm awareness of the world around you, open to feeling.

After the service we broke into our groups. I was in a group going to a local food bank to stock items. But there was no one in the building. So instead, we were sent to an elementary school. Once there, we painted the library, reorganized the books, put labels into new books, and made signs to hang over the bookshelves. I made a sign, labelled books, and helped clean up, but I also made new friends, and I had a great time. The principal said the teachers, students, and librarian would be thrilled to see their renovated space. Honestly, it still looked like it could use a lot of work, but they were so happy and grateful.

Riding back on the train that night, I didn't think that much about the cold.

Freewrite

I don't know how this is going to come together. I've been watching stupid television and feeling lazy all day. So, I decided I just needed to write something, even something rambling, incomplete, ungrammatical, silly, and with mixed metaphors.

Upon finishing the translation of Things Past the other day, I had one of those rare but meaningful moments when I remember what it is I love. --Those moments when you're caught up in aesthetic completion, those moments some books make us feel. This book was such an immense labor of time, going through it. And while some passages along the way are vivid, lovely, and wonderful... there are also moments that annoy, as the character wallows in his possessive jealousy or recounts tales of casual sex with milk, bakery, and grocer "girls." (But, now I'm getting side-tracked). Because the experience was one of greater beauty, and lingering on the more annoying aspects makes me forget my larger point. The point is that I'm grateful to be able to appreciate this sort of work of art, to be able to see the bigger picture, to get aesthetic pleasure from a text.

Then there was Thanksgiving, and I began to realize that I should be thankful for who I am --. If you think about it, really, the odds of you being you and me being me were crazy. First, none of our ancestors had to die from plague or a dinosaur (Kentucky science) before some other ancestor of ours was born. Secondly, consider the odds we were up against even with the thousands of eggs and innumerable sperm.... (ok, I wander again). My point is that I'm ok with my own existence. I have been blessed with the ability to feel and experience some few things in unique ways. I don't mean to sound like an ass, although with the egoism involved in blogging, I'm afraid I probably come across that way a lot. (I really try not to). I think there are thousands of ways of appreciating beauty, and we're all given unique insights and ways to contribute to the whole. As an example, I wish I had some insight into the beauty of math. I know some individuals can see in numbers, formulas, and proofs a pleasurable pattern; they perceive a beauty I can only realize exists, but I do not get to personally experience. They have an insight with the universe that deepens it. They add to God's creation by adding to God's experience of her creation.

Many people understand the underlying aesthetic wonder of nature itself, of painting, of music --we all get glimpses of the undercurrents of beauty rippling through different dimensions of our world. We tap into the groundwater now and then, even if it's a short, shallow drink. Still the water is cool and refreshing. Our souls receive life and are enlarged. This is also the spiritual experience. This is also love and friendship. These are the cherished and wonderful things that we all hold very dear.

But to hear a beautiful sonata is only one level. Imagine being Mozart. There is the human working through layers of deeper connection to creativity itself. Bringing back that vision, that touching of the stars, to share with other hearts and minds, not given the direct involvement.

Still, each time someone new experiences a beautiful song or finds something worthy, it deepens the universe's memory and experience of it. What I'm also saying is that we don't have to be Mozart. Each time something beautiful is relived and recreated, we participate in the life of beauty, of the life of art, in life itself (whatever mysterious purpose it has). So, while I do not create works of art, I feel the current of beauty running through them, some more than others. And that is a blessing. It is a gift to get a sense of completion from a text that feels like more than the writer, more than the words, more than myself.

The other day I was reading about a technique where painters use two colors alongside each other to create the impression of a third color. The third color isn't "really" there-- but it's the combination of the two and the human mind's filtering of the experience that gives rise to something more than what simply meets the eye. I feel lucky to get moments of seeing the third color when I read. I think some of us have that wellspring, and while we may often be burdened by thinking so much about something, at times it loses all distinction and becomes a mere blur, we also get the pleasure of a level of understanding not small in its beauty.

This sense, this third color also emerges in our personal lives and relationships. It emerges in our friendships and in our marriages. Think of how in a marriage you become more than a single person; you become a couple. You're both still complete individuals (in good marriages) but a third quality emerges, and that is the quality of you two together. That aspect that comes through is love and the unique way your relationship develops and adds to this world. They say when people are married "two become one," but I see it a little differently. My math doesn't add up I suppose. 1 + 1 = 3 . Again, back to me not understanding math!

Now, I feel the need to step back. Certainly I am a little speck of dust. There are people much, much smarter, more creative, more insightful, more everything. But for my lump of clay, I contribute to God's experience of beautiful things and add my humble love and ecstatic excitement, at least every now and then. That is what I can hope for and can be happy to feel on occasion. To be ungrateful would be to diminish the generosity of a thoughtful gift.

I know too that I have friends that feel and understand similar experiences. I know they access similar points of beauty. I have friends that know more than I do and have deeper wells into areas I do not venture. Some of them participate in the living waters of knowledge, especially specialized areas, of music, or art, of different types of literature, of different languages, philosophies, and ideas. We each have our own way of uniquely experiencing beauty through, being, and beyond ourselves. And while we may not see them all, we can still celebrate them.

What I learned today: Werewolves enjoy romantic interludes between meals

I went to J.D.'s work today. It was sort of weird, but the weather is cold, windy, and rainy here, and J.D. didn't want me to have to walk home from a doctor's appointment. So, I sat in the corner by his desk reading, for 3 hours, trying to be invisible. On the bright side, it's a good way to make me actually do my reading.

I admire J.D. very much for what he does. I couldn't do it. And now I also feel like a bum for complaining about the opportunity I have to do what I like.

While reading I did encounter an interesting coincidence. It appears that Bill Ayers' group, Weatherman, bombed and blew up the house where James Merrill was born, 18 West 11th Street. Imagine that. What a small world.

Right now J.D. is asleep on the couch with Sophie cuddled up beside his head. It's a funny, cute sight.

There was a party at J.D.'s work tonight, some special November event that we didn't plan to attend, but since we were there, we wandered down and had some free dinner. (Fried Ravioli, a St. Louis thing). They had really good white chocolate chip cookies. I also learned things. (Keep in mind for this story that they were serving unlimited alcohol at the party since 3:00 p.m., and we got there around 5:30 p.m.).

One of J.D.'s coworkers (a woman) yelled across the tiny table at me: "Do you READ?"

I replied, "Yes, I read."

"What sort of stuff?"

"Mostly older things, classics."

(Frown) "Anything paranormal?"

(Me smiling, thinking I may have a chance here). "Yes, actually, I'm really interested in spiritualism and even some poetry written using the Ouija Board."

(Bigger Frown) "Oh, well, you should read Paranormal Erotica. It's fantastic, not boring!!!

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Paranormal Erotica! It's really sexy, like an X rated movie except with werewolves and vampires!

To my good fortune, they started playing the electric slide at this moment, and I was spared any description of hot lycanthrope on homosapien action. I did get a comforting look from J.D. that said, "I'm sorry," and his eyes communicated that he was about to step in, had the electric slide not come to the immediate rescue. I commented to him, "I certainly haven't written that chapter yet."

Picture from Wikipedia

Impressionism

. . . a pink cloud paints a last touch of life in the tranquil sky. A few drops of rain fall without noise on the water, ancient but still in its divine infancy coloured always by the weather and continually forgetting the reflexions of clouds and flowers. And after the geraniums have vainly striven, by intensifying the brilliance of their scarlet, to resist the gathering darkness, a mist rises to envelop the now slumbering island; one walks in the moist dimness along the water's edge, where at the most the silent passage of a swan startles one like, in a bed, at night, the eyes, for a moment wide open, and the swift smile of a child whom one did not suppose to be awake. Then one
would like to have with one a loving companion, all the more as one feels oneself to be alone and can imagine oneself to be far away from the world. ("The Guermantes Way II.106)

I love the image of water forgetting its reflections. Water is like the mind here, but Proust makes the water a constant tabula rasa, whereas, we hope human beings would retain the memories of their colored impressions. Perhaps that's the point. We do retain precisely impressions. We don't recall exactly how the pink cloud looked, but we recall the sensation of the pink cloud, the feeling of aloneness or quietude or appreciative beauty as it dissolves before our eyes. We also have a build-up of impressions. Proust worked a lot with memory. He helped develop the idea that our memories are not always, or even often, under our control. They are spontaneous and take on an independent life. Seeing a pink cloud in 10 years could remind me of eating the dark chocolate I'm snacking on right now as I write about it. Or the next time I eat chocolate, I could think about pink clouds. Our senses take us back through the past, often in an unpredictable time machine. We often suddenly remember something from our childhood, perhaps a loving memory of a grandparent when we smell fresh baked cookies. Our impressions to a large extent become our identity, but they are more wild than we like to admit.

I love most the line about the geraniums, intensifying their scarlet, against the darkness. This is one of the most beautiful features of a grey day. Of course, poor geraniums, it's a losing battle. But, they do seem to glow more vibrantly in the onset of the gloom.

There's a lot here in this passage. I think I can work with this, but I don't know why I am. Sometimes you have to have faith. All I know is that Merrill marked it, his check is by the word "dark-ness" as it breaks like a enjambed line. I know too that he worked with the imaginative connection between sight and memory, between all the senses and memory, and especially the nature of reflexion/reflection.

He also has a major poem about swans and childhood, which he wrote in college around the same time as his thesis on Proust... could I perhaps have discovered the source / a source? Perhaps just another impression along the way to its formation, either way, it's promising I think.

p.s. I forgot to add too, the very nature of the passage, with it's flowing from one image and idea to the next builds or enacts this functioning of the human mind. We move rapidly from the pink cloud, to water, to red geraniums, to mist and swans, to awake eyes, to a child's smile, to the desired sensation of walking with one's imagined, beloved companion.

Last of Gustav

"Gustav" -- Gustav. The rain is pouring. Outside our stairwell is a waterfall. Gustav started last night at 12:30. I couldn't sleep. Maybe last night was just a sleepless night for everyone. What sort of name is Gustav anyway? Here I've got to look it up. "Staff of the Goths" -- German. Yes, if by Goths we mean raindrops, then those Visigoths are busy sacking my home right now.

I'm really nervous. I'm almost bordering on panicked. I really don't know what I'm doing, and the clock is running. A school year may seem like a lot of time, but I know it will go by in a flash. Already the weather is turning cool. Soon the leaves will fall. Then it will snow. Then the snow will melt. Then the dogwood's will bloom. And before you blink, another year will have passed.

My life has been very slow and small these past few years, to the point I've felt claustrophobic. But the pressure of producing something so important and massive, something that taps into your brain and 30 years of whatever you've put in there... I can't think of anything else to describe it other than frightening. I guess we never know our future, but ours is really uncertain. We need to move. We need to find somewhere with jobs. We need to buy a house. It makes me queasy thinking of the equity we could have built. But all I feel is so much anxiety, I can't focus to write a word of what I need to.

Instead I sit here and listen to Gustav. On second thought, it is kind of a nice name for just the rain.