This is the best time of year for me: celebrating Yule and the winter solstice.  I am far away from the misery of summer.  This is the time when I get to unplug from the stress and deadlines and demands at work and thoroughly enjoy the quiet, the warmth, of the heart of winter.  Call it the Peace of the Season; call it what you will.

Oh Winter! ruler of th’ inverted year…

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,

And dreaded as thou art!  Thou hold’st the sun

A pris’ner in the yet undawning East,

Short’ning his journey between morn and noon,

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

Down to the rosy West; but kindly still

Compensating his loss with added hours

Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering at short notice, in one group,

The family dispers’d, and fixing thought,

Not less dispers’d by day-light and its cares.

I crown thee King of intimate delights,

Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,

And all the comforts that the lowly roof

Of undisturb’d retirement, and the hours

Of long uninterrupted evening, know.

The Task, Book IV: The Winter Evening — William Cowper

]]> http://itsfuriousbalancing.com/index.php/2010/12/23/the-heart-of-winter/feed/ 0 http://itsfuriousbalancing.com/index.php/2010/05/21/things-fall-apart/ http://itsfuriousbalancing.com/index.php/2010/05/21/things-fall-apart/#comments Sat, 22 May 2010 02:39:56 +0000 Laiane http://itsfuriousbalancing.com/?p=1543

When…everyone was competing for airtime, I felt invisible and became over-stimulated and anxious.  My anxiety was not about the pressure to socialize; there were more than enough bodies to take care of that.  I became anxious because I couldn’t think, and, without my own mind, I felt like I was disintegrating….In my solitude, I could regain contact with myself and become solid again. Laurie Helgoe, PhD.

That is the most apt, most accurate description of the life of an introvert in an extroverted world that I have ever read.  Truly.  When I read it, I felt as if I had the breath knocked out of me, almost like I had been punched in the stomach.  Someone understands.  Someone gets it.

I haven’t been showing up here too frequently because I haven’t been able to recover very well from my work.  For whatever unknown reason, my work load has doubled in the past two weeks.  It is utterly insane.  It’s not my boss dumping stuff on me; he is as gobsmacked as I am.  By the end of the day, I’m ready to curl up in the fetal position and eat ice cream for dinner.  I find that I’m needing more and more time to regroup so I can go back to the office the next day.

I’m around.  I am basically okay.  I’m just not feeling very chatty lately.  I’ve been knitting and reading and watching documentaries.

I’ve been rebuilding myself daily.

I did go back over this inchoate list of notes to make it look somewhat formatted, and I added in my links.  It’s not all off the cuff.  Hopefully, there is a gram of sense in it.  Somewhere.  All I know is that I need to go back to my World War II/German history books and do a lot of re-reading.

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Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.
– George Santayana

William L. Shirer made these words the epigraph for his Rise and Fall of the Third Reich (1959).

Note that I should finish Rise and Fall, former bedtime reading, having only made it up to the Anschluss.  I would read two pages before falling asleep, worry of breaking nose from hardcover book.

Don’t Ignore the Tea Party’s Toxic Take on History, Slate article by Ron Rosenbaum.

Tea Party movement = Ignorance of History.  Ignorance of meaning of the words socialism, Nazism, Communism, etc.

Rosenbaum is the author of Explaining Hitler, which is not a Hitler apologia apologist (determine noun, an historical apologist writes what?  Apologies, certainly, but there must be a better word, based on root apolog-.) My reading of that and of personal narratives of German citizens during the Hitler years has been met with unspoken condescension — usually from people unable to cope with anything that actually requires them to think about what they read.

These books are not a glorification or a rationalization of Hitler or of Nazi Germany, but stem from a need to understand; and I read them due to my own German descent and my interest in the complicated nature of human evil and in the lack of black/white dichotomies.

My fascination with shades of gray in the human psyche, how easy it is to push someone from sanity/rationality over the edge.  Incremental and unnoticed for the most part.  Similar to ease of losing humanity under extreme duress [lack of food, example of Primo Levi (?) -- or was it Elie Weisel (?) --in Auschwitz listening to father's death rattle in hopes of getting his stuff.  Boots?  Blanket?]; or not [1950's or 1960's psychological research study at U.S. college of prisoners vs. wardens - find link The Stanford Prison Experiment, 1971].

If it is that simple — simple as in “not complicated,” not “easy” — to become inhuman to others, how simple is it to manipulate the narrative to merely plant the seeds of a social movement that takes us backwards towards intolerance, racism, xenophobia, and worse.  A spiral into madness.

Weimar Republic, social history.  Analogous to today?  Tea Party, by their inability to understand history, is becoming a tool to lead us into a repeat of that not-understood history.

Big doesn’t necessarily mean better. Sunflowers aren’t better than violets. — Edna Ferber

Long story short — I was reading the Wiki article on Imbolc, since it’s Imbolc as well as Groundhog’s Day, and I found the following something:

Imbolc is also named as the day the where the Cailleach, the hag of Gaelic tradition,  gathers her firewood for the rest of the winter.  Legend has it that if she intends to make the winter last a good while longer, she will make sure the weather on Imbolc is bright and sunny, so she can gather plenty of firewood.  Therefore, it is seen as a good omen if Imbolc is a day of foul weather, as it means the Cailleach is asleep and winter is almost over.

I love it when I find pieces-parts of the universe that neatly snap together.

Today is also the Feast of Brigid, a goddess associated with poetry, healing, and smithcraft.  In the blogging world, today is a day for poetry.  My contribution this year doesn’t seem to fit in as a poem — more like a prose-poem.  I offer it anyway, since the beauty of the prose shines through.

Dreamtigers

In my childhood I was a fervent worshiper of the tiger — not the jaguar, that spotted “tiger” that inhabits the floating islands of water hyacinths along the Paraná and the tangled wilderness of the Amazon, but the true tiger, the striped Asian breed that can be faced only by men of war, in a castle atop an elephant.  I would stand for hours on end before one of the cages at the zoo; I would rank vast encyclopedias and natural history books by the splendor of their tigers.  (I still remember those pictures, I who cannot recall without error a woman’s brow or smile.)  My childhood outgrown, the tigers and my passion for them faded, but they are still in my dreams.  In that underground sea or chaos, they still endure.  As I sleep I am drawn into some dream or other, and suddenly I realize that it’s a dream.  At those moments, I often think:  This is a dream, a pure diversion of my will, and since I have unlimited power, I am going to bring forth a tiger.

Oh, incompetence!  My dreams never seem to engender the creature I so hunger for.  The tiger does appear, but it is all dried up, or it’s flimsy-looking, or it has impure vagaries of shape or an unacceptable size, or it’s altogether too ephemeral, or it looks more like a dog or bird than like a tiger.

- Jose Luis Borges

Enjoy your day, whichever you celebrate.

Three times Randolph Carter dreamed of the marvellous city, and three times was he snatched away while still he paused on the high terrace above it. All golden and lovely it blazed in the sunset, with walls, temples, colonnades, and arched bridges of veined marble, silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and perfumed gardens, and wide streets marching between delicate trees and blossom-laden urns and ivory statues in gleaming rows; while on steep northward slopes climbed tiers of red roofs and old peaked gables harbouring little lanes of grassy cobbles.

It was a fever of the gods; a fanfare of supernal trumpets and a clash of immortal cymbals. Mystery hung about it as clouds about a fabulous unvisited mountain; and as Carter stood breathless and expectant on that balustraded parapet there swept up to him the poignancy and suspense of almost-vanished memory, the pain of lost things, and the maddening need to place again what once had an awesome and momentous place.

H.P. Lovecraft, The Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath

When I find myself under stress, when I’m overwhelmed, there are several things that always help me feel better.  One of the tried and true methods involves sundry combinations of chocolate, sugar, and caffeine.  Another is immersive computer gaming, fantasy RPG being my preferred genre.  The last, oldest, and perhaps the most important for my mental health is reading.

That should be re-reading, actually.  I go back to my favorite books; they’re comforting and familiar.  It is, perhaps, my choice of books that may appear… unusual.

I’ve been going back to savor the stories of H.P. Lovecraft.  Curling up with Dream Quest of Unknown Kadath or The Case of Charles Dexter Ward has helped maintain my equilibrium for the past week or so.

It’s the delicious, dense, antiquarian prose that draws me in.  I love the sound and shape of words for their own sake, and Lovecraft’s words are what lead to my idea for this post.

When I read, I use a large Post-It note as a bookmark.  I use this to keep track of interesting words I encounter in whatever I’m reading at the time.  Words I want to look up since I’m not quite certain of the meaning.  Words that are complex and multifaceted.  Words that make me pause and think  “Oh, this looks really, really cool.  How delightful.”  These words eventually appear in one of my lists at Wordnik.com

I’ve filled up two Post-It notes and part of the back of an envelope with Lovecraft words.  They’ve been lurking on my nightstand.  When I saw them this morning, I thought — for the first time in a long while — that I had something worth sharing.

Without further ado, in no particular order, and in nowise comprehensive:

miasmal, cenotaph, niter, necrophagous, aegipans, lambent, interdicted, acidulous, eidolon, teratologically, squamous, vigintillion, ductile, ichor, palimpsest, quintile, foetor, cartouche, labyrinthine, cumbrous, illimitable, bas reliefs, terrene, pallid, spheroid, aggultinations, dadoes, cryptical, similitude, austral, Cyclopean, anent, bizarrerie, portent, preternatural, immensurable, trans-montane, ineluctable, nefandous, congeries

If only I had been able to start writing!  But, however I set about it (all too similarly, alas to the resolve to give up alcohol, to go to bed early, to keep fit), whether it was in a spurt of activity, with method, with pleasure, in depriving myself of a walk, or postponing and reserving it as a reward, taking advantage of an hour of feeling well, making use of the inaction forced on me by a day’s illness, the inevitable result of my efforts was a blank page, untouched by writing, as predestined as the forced card that you inevitably wind up drawing in certain tricks, however thoroughly you have first shuffled the pack.

Marcel Proust – The Guermantes Way

And that’s what I have to say about New Year’s Resolutions.

Actually, I need to re-read Proust.  Yes, you read that correctly — RE-read.  I had my first trip through  À la recherche du temps perdu in 1994-1995.  I’ve picked it up, on and off and on again, for years.  I’m thinking it’s time again.

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A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

There’s a passage in Moby Dick, when Ishmael and Queequeg are under the covers at the boarding house, prior to their sailing on The Pequod, which describes this comforting warmth and well-being perfectly:

We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was chilly out of doors; indeed out of bedclothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room.  The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast….[I]f like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of you nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm….[T]he height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blanket between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air.  Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

No Seasonal Affective Disorder here, thankyouverymuch, at least not the “normal” kind.

We have a Christmas tree up for the first time in two years.  Two Christmases ago, I lost Gregor and I had new kittens to care for.  Last Christmas, a combination of Teh Husband’s work and mine (and a few bouts with head colds) kept us from doing much.  This year I finally have the energy for a little celebration and relaxation.

I am officially off work until Monday, December 29th.  I know it might not seem like much to some of you, but to me, I have four consecutive days of freedom and pleasure.  No traveling.  No relatives.  No must-attend parties.  No Christmas shopping.  No craziness.  I have four days to call my own and I have no intention of doing anything I don’t feel like doing.  I think the most stressful activity will be doing the grocery shopping tomorrow to get the missing odds and ends for our Christmas Day Feast.

Le Menu (so far)

Foolproof Rib Roast. Teh Husband and I are going out in the morning to pick up a 6-pound standing rib roast at Knight’s Market.

Steamed Asparagus with Real Hollandaise Sauce. This involves whisking egg yolks and lemon juice over a double boiler as you incrementally add melted butter, whisking, whisking, whisking all the way.  There is no comparison between Real Hollandaise and That Blender Crap.

Delmonico Potato Casserole. If you’re nice to me, I’ll type out the recipe.  The recipes I found online for Delmonico Potatoes left a lot to be desired.  One even called for — I kid you not — cubed processed cheese food. I’m certain there is a time and a place for cubed processed cheese food, but my Christmas Day Feast is not it.

An As-Yet-to-Be-Determined Dessert. Maybe.  Teh Husband picked up the Williams-Sonoma Peppermint Bark for me today, and I’m satisfied to call that our dessert.  This is assuming I don’t eat it all in the next 36 hours.

More later, cats and kittens.

One post would be a righteously indignant screed concerning the utter stupidity of the public and the media in their interpretations of the latest recommendations on mammograms for women between the ages of 40 and 49.  Honestly, people; get a grip.

I threw that idea out because I really don’t have the energy for righteous indignation right now.

The other idea for a post was how I find myself thinking more and more about my own mortality.

I have to point out — here and now — that this has nothing to do with my chronic depression or chronic pain, nor is it anything suicidal.  I’m not getting all emo-gothy-weird — I don’t have the wardrobe for it.  I’ve just been thinking thinking, and I feel myself Running Out of Time.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker

There is so much I want to see and do and experience; it’s really not so much of a memento mori thing as it is a sic transit gloria mundi thing.

In any event, that’s where my head is — for what its’ worth — and I’ve just reminded myself that I really need to get around to reading the annotated The Waste Land that’s been sitting on my to-be-read bookshelf for the past twelve months.

Damn.

I better get up on that.