Thoughts on a Young Rilke

You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in our heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. —RMR, "Letters to a Young Poet"

Rainer Maria Rilke was, as a young man, intellectually gifted, sensitive, and an appalling sentimentalist. He was concerned with cataloguing moments, with creating pristine frames for the scenes his eyes witnessed, with drifting through nature appreciating natural beauty, even as his sharp critic's mind analyzed the avant-garde in arts and letters. He studied Russian, met (and was cowed by) Tolstoy. Rilke was enthusiastic, and sometimes a nuisance to himself and others, who respected his persistent insights but sometimes wanted him to go away. His enthusiasm could get in the way of their work — he craved connection and worshipped at the temples where he found it. His adoration threw off at least one friend's writing schedule - as she wrote chapters of a novel, Lou Andreas-Salome fought Rainer for the time to pursue her own ideas. On at least one occasion she asked her maid to pretend she was not at home when he came to call, so she might spend time with the characters she was creating, rather than being drawn into the forests around her home, walking barefoot with Rilke. These details I have learned by reading some of the letters they shared.

Rainer's early indiscretions comfort me. This must be how he knows, for certain, that "young people are not prepared for such difficult loving... Young people who love each other fling themselves to each other... They don't notice at all what a lack of mutual esteem lies in this disordered giving of themselves... They must not forget, when they love, that they are beginners, bunglers of life, apprentices in love - must learn love." Rilke's abiding friendship with Andreas-Salome, as they grew older and left behind the sexual nature of their relationship, is also a comfort. Their love affair shifts into a deep friendship, of which intellectual support and friendly interest between them are key components. Their genuine interest in each other, their dedication to hearing and sharing ideas, their mutual hope for health and growth, all these qualities remain strong, though the sexual element of their relationship had gone.

I can imagine Lou, married, intellectually mature and curious, diving into the pool of this hot-blooded young man fourteen years her junior. I can imagine her calm, world-wise countenance as he vents his spleen, perhaps gentle amusement as he tries feverishly to capture moments she sees with a more seasoned eye, as she pets this boy genius she must have contemplated the blurring of the line between mother and lover. Perhaps she was more comfortable in one role than in the other - perhaps she saw the roles knit together into a sensual, intimate, forbidden, primal mantle. Perhaps this is why Rilke's early letters rail against her patience, her wisdom. He doesn't want her to be a mother figure, but an equal.

I love Rilke's assertion that love is difficult and requires substantial study beforehand. "Whoever wants to have a deep love in his life must collect and save for it and gather honey." To make one's life sweeter, to increase the depth and breadth of one's experience, to order one's life, these are such pleasures, and I happen to believe (as does Rilke) that they make us better lovers of other people and better lovers of ourselves.

Sleeping Slantwise

I often sleep slantwise on my bed. Mostly this is fine, but sometimes I wonder if I am truly, deeply, irretrievably contrarian.
Could it denote some kind of medical or mental disorder? Uncertain.
Most likely it's because of the papers where my feet should be.

Why I Love the T, Part 2 - All Kissed Up

Coming home on the red line, I saw these ladies, ready to rock. I saluted them. Wait, that's ACDC.
I hope neither of them ended up in front of the mad pee-er.
http://www.rollingstone.com/rockdaily/index.php/2009/10/08/kiss-piss-scandal-man-arrested-for-urinating-on-fan-at-concert/

On the Bus

Coming home from work exhausted, dizzy from the noisy, creaking city bus, I look up from the book in my lap and see a boy and his father. They both wear baggy jeans and sweatshirts, they are the color of au lait coffees. They sit next to each other on the bus.

Soon, the boy's father stretches out and rests his head in his son's lap. The boy curls over his father's shoulder and puts his head on his father's chest. Their familiarity is intimate, practiced. They touch with the casual, proprietary air one saves for one's own pocketbook or a jacket carried over the arm. My heart swells; it is as if I, too, am being touched in this familiar way.

When this position gets too uncomfortable, the boy (curly-headed and observant) sits up and puts his fingers on his dad's face, playing with the way his father's eyes close and the way his forehead wrinkles. His fingers are neither gentle nor rough, but insistent, inquisitive. The man doesn't brush his son's fingers aside, but waits until, on their own, they finish exploring.

The boy takes an envelope from his pocket, and studies the two Red Sox tickets inside. He asks his father a question, maybe about the seats. I don't like to overhear.

We are headed south into the city from the suburbs, and the bus jangles like a woman's heavy costume jewelry or an aluminum can filled with concrete dragged, without mercy, behind a bicycle. It takes the potholes too seriously. I call my brother first and then my father. My brother is in the middle of something but my father answers with a fond "Why, hullo there!" and it is as if I can touch his face with my fingers. We talk all the way to the bus station and I walk out into the street where it's raining and we keep talking, even though we make mistakes (He thinks I was born in 1975. I wasn't.), we are both unwilling to let go of the connection.

Sweeping slantwise

I've been sweeping and mopping out the new apartment in Dorchester, and have found such archaeological gems as a single tacky earring, other people's hair and toenail clippings, and -- the tour de force -- a great pair of thong underwear while sweeping underneath the radiator... Those will of course come in handy as it gets closer to laundry day. Such a find really makes me wonder who used to live here -- a hooker? A hot mama? A drag queen? My sister?
What if that person is dead? Is there a right or wrong way to dispose of a dead person's thong? Can they haunt you if you do it wrong?

The Thong

It's been hot up here all summer -- but I'm close to the water, and the views are great. UMass is on Dorchester Bay, and Dorchester and Quincy both have nice bodies of water right next to them.

UMass Boston and Dot Bay

Dorchester Bay

Wollaston Beach, Quincy

I keep seeing these ominously enormous snowshovels in people's storage closets. They're serious and square and imposing. There should be some kind of organ music playing. Dum-dum-daaaaaah....
Boston drivers are the best. They are affectionately known as Massholes and they're lots of fun to be around. Seriously, in Florida, where people stay in their lanes, there's not nearly the sensory challenge. But in Boston... it's kind of like a video game, where pedestrians pop up out of nowhere (kind of like Galaga, except they don't shoot things at you. Usually. I haven't even gotten The Bird.) and other cars behave erratically (You can't let the taxis intimidate you.) and sometimes barrel straight at you. You kind of have to fight for your lane sometimes. (But it's not personal.) And then -- why you've EARNED it, by golly. That's the American way.
Another funny thing -- on autopilot, most cars edge out of their lane if there's an impediment -- they sort of expect that you can see the huge FedEx truck inexplicably parked in the middle of moving traffic and that you understand they've got to get around it somehow or another. It's much more fluid traffic than I'm used to -- everybody expects exceptions and nobody really raises much of an eyebrow when you cut in front of them because you've suddenly found yourself in a turn-only lane. There's some sense of camaraderie, I think, about the whole thing. An "Ah, whaddaya gonna do." (shrug) laissez faire sort of approach that, in our culture of rules, rigidity and restrictions, I find quote wholesome. It's organic driving -- the next craze, and it didn't even start in California. :)
I miss the cats. They are funny beasties and their personalities are a lot like people. I mean, they have their annoying parts. But mostly they just made me laugh and snuggled me lots. Oh, and clawed things that did not belong to them. That was a big part of their schedule, too. But, ah (shrug), whaddya gonna do.
School starts Tuesday! So... I'ma gonna read something. Stansell's "City of Women," Johnson's "Sleepwalking through history" or "Playing the Race Card." Until next time...

Here I am!

Andover is gorgeous! And the drive was beautiful!

I've arrived safe and sound after a fun and funny trip where I learned very valuable lessons about bungee cords, aerodynamics and the things you can and can't do while driving at high speeds... (texting OK, searching for CDs isn't) luckily no real incidents, once I abandoned the tarp, which kept catching the wind wrong. My longsuffering truck is a champ and made it through with flying colors...

New Jersey was funny -- there was in fact gorgeous scenery once you got away from the highway -- but somehow I couldn't tear myself away from the gas stations, which were amazing studies in human behavior. The gas station attendants get very flustered when you try to pump your own gas, because apparently that's illegal in the state of New Jersey. What *is* that?

I came up via Albany, and thus got to see some of the gorgeous scenery in western Mass... I found a neat hostel in New Paltz, about 40 minutes south of Albany, which turned out to be a fun little hippie town with crazy pedestrians, dreadlocked hitchikers and several great natural food stores.

The MIT class is fun so far (I'm doing lots of reading and research to get ready for it at the moment) -- the building we're in is right on the Charles River, which is gorgeous... I'm casting about for ways to make some money for the summer... I have some interviews in Boston coming up -- but then there's a Harvard sleep study that will pay you $10,000 if you will agree to not leave a hospital room and let them interrupt your sleep cycle for 40 days. Hmm.

I had a great fourth -- Both Boston and Portsmouth, NH, had great fireworks displays. The Portsmouth display (so I understand from a seasoned resident) has a history of crowd casualties, but happily, this year the flying incendiaries stayed in the sky.

In Andover, so far I've visited the public library, the grounds of Phillips Academy (alma mater of our esteemed President and also our esteemed columnist Charlie Patton) and the local and fabulous Andover Bookstore. It's two stories of wall-to-wall books, and ... they give you cookies at the door. And, of course, the Dunkin' Donuts. Spectacular.

Also, (HURRAH) I finished the clockface I was working on!



Write and let me know how it's going...Miss you all lots.

Also -- check out breakdancing Yoda:
http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=3384765