Reading. It is both a good and a bad sign that immersion in an author's world can be so disturbing. Yet this is the simple truth. Take Michael Ondaatje's latest. The Cat's Table is hardly heavy going. In fact, it is full of the prankish spirit of boyhood and dances along quite lightly until it begins to scream ever so softly. As with all good writing, the nature and origins of that strain emerge slowly, gradually coalescing into another consciousness. We have been pleasantly deceived. Well, at least in my particular case 'pleasantly' is overstating it. I find such shifts in my reader's underpinnings to be unnerving. Reading alone can be unsettling. Unfortunately, this is much like being alone. Which one is, of course, and which says more about my overall level of anxiety than anything else. Something insidious this way comes.
Of course, to avoid this quality is to avoid life. To me, it is like the difference between the film of Ondaatje's earlier hit, The English Patient, and the novel. The film is at times stirringly romantic, at others stark, with a thread of appealing mystery. It is another matter with the book. In spirit, the latter has a similar progression to Ondaatje's newest novel, a growing sense of unease building, its nature and origins vague. Only language can steer us in this way. Yes, the author is a fine one, but the reader must be with him to make it all work. Evenings, alone in my apartment, immersion in any literature of shifting ground can mildly destabilize me. Better turn on the news, check my e-mail, do anything but slide down the author's slope.
Why such anxiety? The possibilities.... A sense of my own physical fragility. The fear of life's inevitable end. What is it, this primal unease? The product of a disturbed childhood, with the parental foundations of family life ever crumbling? Doubtless. But the origins do not fully address the feelings of today, nor their value. Unease being useful. The opposite of complacency, an anxious fissure through which knowledge may just seep. So, despite my evening disquiet, I would not want to paper over this crack in my well-being. Better open than closed, one might say.
My Tuesday volunteer Paul told me some time ago that he would prefer to hang out with me around my dining table in the mornings -- rather than waltzing out for caffeine and distraction at Peet's. Funny thing, he has a point. So on this particular morning, we had our chat...a wide-ranging discussion of the psychology of brothers traveling together, his growth in dealing with interpersonal matters at work. Followed by Paul doing some gardening, me hitting Peet's on my own, and now this. My moment of examining consciousness. Reading, disturbance and what makes both unsettling and productive. Having someone quietly around, office door closed while Paul reads.... Me alone with my thoughts but not alone in my apartment, well, it has led to this pursuit of an elusive culprit. Fear. Nameless and invisible and easy to dismiss. Paul is half my age. Good thing I don't dismiss him.
It is almost complete, my reading of The Cat's Table, and something in me balks at finishing the job. For the events of the plot, if one can call it that, are aligning in such a way that the tension is going to resolve. A surprise and an outcome are imminent. But I avoid the ending, because I know it is somewhat beside the point. The story is a story, of course, and I am looking forward to the final twists. But the persistence of unsettling things in a narrative is of much greater interest. We will discover what has unsettled the protagonist soon enough. What it is to be unsettled...what it feels like and the implications...all this ripples on and on. Horrifying or comforting...no one can say.
One of the strangest things about aging involves learning. I am quite open to the concept, acquiring new skills and perspectives. In practice, I find myself oddly closed. Witness my publicist's instruction, clear as crystal, to get up to speed in Facebook and Twitter. Oh, I can be as disparaging about the shallowness of social media as anyone - but the truth is that my ignorance is complete. Why not play about with this stuff? I think of my fairly recently deceased friend Clint, role model extraordinaire, who had a way of appearing on the web as a lesbian. Actually, there is more. A lesbian involved in Internet sex with various people in various social media, all genders involved, spanning several continents. In short, at 80 years of age, Clint was into having fun. No one told him not to. Fuck it, being his motto.
Okay, so getting back to this particular dilemma, why not play with things electronic? Noncompetitive play. Objectiveless play. There is, after all, no boss. No parent. No loss of points or loss of face. There is loss of speed, of course. Not to mention loss of interest in things gadgety. Do I dare to eat a peach? Stay tuned.
Of course, to avoid this quality is to avoid life. To me, it is like the difference between the film of Ondaatje's earlier hit, The English Patient, and the novel. The film is at times stirringly romantic, at others stark, with a thread of appealing mystery. It is another matter with the book. In spirit, the latter has a similar progression to Ondaatje's newest novel, a growing sense of unease building, its nature and origins vague. Only language can steer us in this way. Yes, the author is a fine one, but the reader must be with him to make it all work. Evenings, alone in my apartment, immersion in any literature of shifting ground can mildly destabilize me. Better turn on the news, check my e-mail, do anything but slide down the author's slope.
Why such anxiety? The possibilities.... A sense of my own physical fragility. The fear of life's inevitable end. What is it, this primal unease? The product of a disturbed childhood, with the parental foundations of family life ever crumbling? Doubtless. But the origins do not fully address the feelings of today, nor their value. Unease being useful. The opposite of complacency, an anxious fissure through which knowledge may just seep. So, despite my evening disquiet, I would not want to paper over this crack in my well-being. Better open than closed, one might say.
My Tuesday volunteer Paul told me some time ago that he would prefer to hang out with me around my dining table in the mornings -- rather than waltzing out for caffeine and distraction at Peet's. Funny thing, he has a point. So on this particular morning, we had our chat...a wide-ranging discussion of the psychology of brothers traveling together, his growth in dealing with interpersonal matters at work. Followed by Paul doing some gardening, me hitting Peet's on my own, and now this. My moment of examining consciousness. Reading, disturbance and what makes both unsettling and productive. Having someone quietly around, office door closed while Paul reads.... Me alone with my thoughts but not alone in my apartment, well, it has led to this pursuit of an elusive culprit. Fear. Nameless and invisible and easy to dismiss. Paul is half my age. Good thing I don't dismiss him.
It is almost complete, my reading of The Cat's Table, and something in me balks at finishing the job. For the events of the plot, if one can call it that, are aligning in such a way that the tension is going to resolve. A surprise and an outcome are imminent. But I avoid the ending, because I know it is somewhat beside the point. The story is a story, of course, and I am looking forward to the final twists. But the persistence of unsettling things in a narrative is of much greater interest. We will discover what has unsettled the protagonist soon enough. What it is to be unsettled...what it feels like and the implications...all this ripples on and on. Horrifying or comforting...no one can say.
One of the strangest things about aging involves learning. I am quite open to the concept, acquiring new skills and perspectives. In practice, I find myself oddly closed. Witness my publicist's instruction, clear as crystal, to get up to speed in Facebook and Twitter. Oh, I can be as disparaging about the shallowness of social media as anyone - but the truth is that my ignorance is complete. Why not play about with this stuff? I think of my fairly recently deceased friend Clint, role model extraordinaire, who had a way of appearing on the web as a lesbian. Actually, there is more. A lesbian involved in Internet sex with various people in various social media, all genders involved, spanning several continents. In short, at 80 years of age, Clint was into having fun. No one told him not to. Fuck it, being his motto.
Okay, so getting back to this particular dilemma, why not play with things electronic? Noncompetitive play. Objectiveless play. There is, after all, no boss. No parent. No loss of points or loss of face. There is loss of speed, of course. Not to mention loss of interest in things gadgety. Do I dare to eat a peach? Stay tuned.
